ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 


ATLANTIC 
CLASSICS 


The  Atlantic  Monthly  Company 
Boston 


COPYRIGHT,   1916,  BY   THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  COMPANY 


TO 

The  Pleasantest  of  Companions, 

Most  Constant  of  Friends, 
Who  Seeks  not  Flattery  but  Counsel, 

Provoked  on  Occasion  only 
And  never  Vexing  beyond  Endurance, 

Wise  with  Ancient  Wisdom, 
And  Fresh  from  the  Fountain  of  Youth 

THE 
ATLANTIC    CONTRIBUTOR 


339492 


Preface 

THIS  volume,  composed  of  essays  which  on  their  ap 
pearance  in  the  Atlantic  have  met  with  especial  favor 
and  which  from  their  character  seem  to  deserve  a  longer 
life  than  the  paper  covers  of  a  magazine  permit,  is 
published  out  of  deference  to  a  multitude  of  requests. 
Many  readers  have  asked  that  this  essay  or  that  be 
preserved  in  permanent  form,  while  many  teachers 
both  in  college  and  high  school  have  written  us  that 
the  usefulness  of  the  Atlantic  in  the  classroom  would 
be  enhanced  by  the  appearance  of  an  edition  which, 
selecting  from  the  selection  already  made  from  month 
to  month,  should  constitute  a  kind  of  Atlantic  Anthol 
ogy,  preserving  the  magazine's  flavor  and  character 
and  offering,  as  it  were,  a  sample  of  what  it  aims  to  be. 
To  give  to  this  collection  that  variety  which  is  the 
spice  of  a  magazine's  life,  the  editor  has  selected  a 
single  contribution  from  each  of  sixteen  characteris 
tic  Atlantic  authors,  making  his  choice  from  material 
not  greatly  affected  by  the  interests  of  the  moment. 
In  two  or  three  instances  appears  an  essay  which  has 
already  been  published  in  some  collection  of  an  au 
thor's  work,  and  the  Atlantic  wishes  to  acknowledge 
with  thanks  permission  from  Houghton  Mifflin  Com- 
[vii] 


PREFACE 

pany  to  print  once  again  Professor  Sharp's  delightful 
"  Turtle  Eggs  for  Agassiz,"  which  has  been  included 
in  his  volume  "The  Face  of  the  Fields,"  and  Mr. 
Nicholson's  agreeable  delineation  of  the  "Provincial 
American";  while  it  gratefully  adds  its  acknowledg 
ment  to  Henry  Holt  and  Company  for  the  reappearance 
of  Mr.  Strunsky's  "The  Street,"  already  published  in 
his  inimitable  little  volume,  "Belshazzar  Court." 

Our  chief  thanks,  now  and  always,  are  due  to  the 
Atlantic's  contributors,  to  whom  we  owe  all  we  have 
or  hope  for.  Were  not  our  design  limited,  we  should 
gladly  enrich  this  collection  with  much  material  from 
our  file,  which  is  quite  as  worthy  to  represent  the 
magazine,  but  which,  for  one  reason  or  another,  we 
judge  less  suitable  for  the  purposes  of  the  present 
volume. 

THE  EDITOR. 


Contents 

FIDDLERS  ERRANT Robert  Haven  Schauffler     i 

TURTLE  EGGS  FOR  AGASSIZ     ....    Dallas  Lore  Sharp    23  ., 
A  FATHER  TO  HIS  FRESHMAN  SON       .  Edward  Sanf or d  Martin    45 

INTENSIVE  LIVING Cornelia  A.  P.  Comer    59 

REMINISCENCE  WITH  POSTSCRIPT  ....       Owen  Wister    87  V 

THE  OTHER  SIDE Margaret  Sherwood  no 

ON  AUTHORS Margaret  Preston  Montague  124 

THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN     ....  Meredith  Nicholson  130 

OUR  LADY  POVERTY Agnes  Repplier  153 

ENTERTAINING  THE  CANDIDATE      .      .      .       Katharine  Baker  173 

THE  STREET Simeon  Strunsky  181 

FASHIONS  IN  MEN       ....  Katharine  Fullerton  Gerould  201 
A  CONFESSION  IN  PROSE  ....    Walter  Prichard  Eaton  225 

IN  THE  CHAIR Ralph  Bergengren  243 

THE  PASSING  OF  INDOORS       ....  Zephine  Humphrey  25*- 
THE  CONTENTED  HEART Lucy  EMiot  Keeler  265 


Fiddlers  Errant 

By  Robert  Haven  Schauffler 

I 

MUSICAL  adventures  largely  depend  on  your  instru 
ment.  Go  traveling  with  a  bassoon  or  clarionet  packed 
in  your  trunk,  and  romance  will  pass  you  by.  But  far 
otherwise  will  events  shape  themselves  if  you  set  forth 
with  a  fiddle. 

The  moment  I  turned  my  back  upon  the  humdrum 
flute  and  embraced  the  'cello,  that  instrument  of  ro 
mance,  things  began  happening  thick  and  fast  in  a 
hitherto  uneventful  life.  I  found  that  to  sally  forth 
with  your  'cello  couchant  under  your  arm,  like  a  lance 
of  the  days  of  chivalry,  was  to  invite  adventure.  You 
tempted  Providence  to  make  things  interesting  for 
you,  up  to  the  moment  when  you  returned  home  and 
stood  your  fat,  melodious  friend  in  the  corner  on  his 
one  leg  —  like  the  stork,  that  other  purveyor  of  joyful 
surprises. 

One  reason  why  the  'cellist  is  particularly  liable  to 
meet  with  musical  adventures  is  because  the  nature 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

of  his  talent  is  so  plainly  visible.  The  parcel  under  his 
arm  labels  him  FIDDLER  in  larger  scare-caps  than 
Mr.  Hearst  ever  invented  for  headlines.  It  is  seen  of  all 
men.  There  is  no  concealment  possible.  For  it  would, 
indeed,  be  less  practicable  to  hide  your  'cello  under  a 
bushel  than  to  hide  a  bushel  under  your  'cello. 

The  non-reducible  obesity  of  this  instrument  is  apt 
to  bring  you  adventures  of  all  sorts:  wrathful  some 
times,  when  urchins  recognize  it  as  a  heaven-sent 
target  for  snowballs;  or  when  adults  audibly  quote 
Dean  Swift's  asinine  remark,  'He  was  a  fiddler  and 
therefore  a  rogue.'  Absurd,  sometimes,  as  when  the 
ticket-chopper  in  the  subway  bars  your  path  under 
the  misapprehension  that  you  are  carrying  a  double- 
bass;  and  when  the  small  boys  at  the  exit  offer  you  a 
Saturday  Evening  Post  in  return  for  'a  tune  on  that 
there  banjo.'  But  more  often  the  episodes  are  pleasant, 
as  when  your  bulky  trademark  enables  some  kindred 
spirit  to  recognize  you  as  his  predestined  companion 
on  impromptu  adventures  in  music. 

I  was  at  first  almost  painfully  aware  of  my  'cello's 
conspicuousness  because  I  had  abandoned  for  it  an 
instrument  so  retiring  by  nature  that  you  might  carry 
it  till  death  in  your  side  pocket,  yet  never  have  it 
contribute  an  unusual  episode  to  your  career.  But 
from  the  moment  when  I  discovered  the  exaggerated 
old  fiddle  in  the  attic,  slumbering  in  its  black  coffin, 
and  wondered  what  it  was  all  about,  and  brought  it 


FIDDLERS  ERRANT 

resurrection  and  life,  —  events  began.  I  have  never 
known  exactly  what  was  the  magic  inherent  in  the 
dull,  guttural,  discouraged  protests  of  the  strings 
which  I  experimentally  plucked  that  day.  But  their 
songs-without-words-or-music  seemed  to  me  pregnant 
with  promises  of  beauty  and  romance  far  beyond  the 
ken  of  the  forthright  flute.  So  then  and  there  I  decided 
to  embark  upon  the  delicate  and  dangerous  enterprise 
of  learning  another  instrument. 

It  was  indeed  delicate  and  dangerous  because  it  had 
to  be  prosecuted  as  secretly  as  sketching  hostile  forti 
fications.  Father  must  not  suspect.  I  feared  that  if 
he  heard  the  demonic  groans  of  a  G  string  in  pain,  or 
the  ghoulish  whimperings  of  a  manhandled  A,  he 
would  mount  to  the  attic,  throw  back  his  head,  look 
down  upon  me  through  those  lower  crescents  of  his 
spectacles  which  always  made  him  look  a  trifle  unsym 
pathetic,  and  pronounce  that  baleful  formula:  'My 
son,  come  into  my  study!'  For  I  knew  he  labored 
under  the  delusion  that  I  already  'blew  in'  too  much 
time  on  the  flute,  away  from  the  companionship  of 
All  Gaul,  enteuthen  exelaunei,  and  Q.E.D.  As  for  any 
additional  instrument,  I  feared  that  he  would  reduce 
it  to  a  pulp  at  sight,  and  me  too. 

My  first  secret  step  was  to  secure  a  long  strip  of 
paper  to  be  pasted  on  the  finger-board  under  the 
strings.  It  was  all  pockmarked  with  black  dots  and 
letters,  so  that  if  the  music  told  you  to  play  the  note  G, 

[  3  l" 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

all  you  had  to  do  was  to  contort  your  neck  properly 
and  remove  your  left  hand  from  the  path  of  vision, 
then  gaze  cross-eyed  and  upside  down  at  the  finger 
board  until  you  discovered  the  particular  dot  labeled 
G.  The  next  move  was  to  clap  your  fingertip  upon 
that  dot  and  straighten  out  your  neck  and  eyes  and 
apply  the  bow.  Then  out  would  come  a  triumphant 
G,  —  that  is,  provided  your  ringers  had  not  already 
rubbed  G's  characteristically  undershot  lip  so  much 
as  to  erase  away  the  letter's  individuality.  In  that 
case,  to  be  sure,  all  your  striving  for  G  might  result 
only  in  C  after  all. 

It  was  fascinating  work,  though.  And  every  after 
noon  as  the  hour  of  four,  and  father's  '  constitutional/ 
approached,  I  would  'get  set'  like  a  sprinter  on  my 
mark  in  the  upper  hall.  The  moment  the  front  door 
closed  definitely  behind  my  parent  I  would  dash  for 
the  attic  and  commence  my  cervical  and  ocular  con 
tortions.  It  was  dangerous,  too.  For  it  was  so  hard 
to  stop  betimes  that  one  evening  father  made  my 
blood  run  cold  by  inquiring,  'What  were  you  moan 
ing  about  upstairs  before  dinner? '  I  fear  that  I  attri 
buted  these  sounds  to  travail  in  Latin  scholarship, 
and  an  alleged  sympathy  for  the  struggles  of  the 
dying  Gaul. 

The  paper  finger-board  was  so  efficacious  that  in  a 
week  I  felt  ready  to  taste  the  first  fruits  of  toil.  So 
I  insinuated  a  pair  of  musical  friends  into  the  house 

I   4   1 


FIDDLERS  ERRANT 

one  afternoon,  to  try  an  easy  trio.  They  were  a 
brother  and  sister  who  played  violin  and  piano.  Things 
went  so  brilliantly  that  we  resolved  on  a  public  per 
formance  within  a  few  days,  at  the  South  High  School. 
Alas,  if  I  had  only  taken  the  supposed  rapidity  of  my 
progress  with  a  grain  of  attic  salt!  But  my  only  solici 
tude  was  over  the  problem  how  to  smuggle  the  too 
conspicuous  instrument  to  school,  on  the  morning 
of  the  concert,  without  the  knowledge  of  a  vigilant 
father.  We  decided  at  last  that  any  such  attempt 
would  be  suicidal  rashness.  So  I  borrowed  another 
boy's  father's  'cello,  and,  in  default  of  the  printed 
strip,  I  penciled  under  the  strings  notes  of  the  where 
abouts  of  G,  C,  and  so  forth,  making  G  shoot  out  the 
lip  with  extra  decision. 

Our  public  performance  was  a  succes  fou,  —  that  is, 
it  was  a  succes  up  to  a  certain  point,  and/0w  beyond  it, 
when  one  disaster  followed  another.  My  fingers  played 
so  hard  as  to  rub  out  G's  lower  lip.  They  quite  oblit 
erated  A,  turned  E  into  F,  and  B  into  a  fair  imitation 
of  D.  These  involuntary  revisions  led  me  to  intro 
duce  the  very  boldest  modern  harmonies  into  one 
of  the  most  naively  traditional  strains  of  Cornelius 
Gurlitt.  Now,  in  the  practice  of  the  art  of  music  one 
never  with  impunity  pours  new  harmonic  wine  into 
old  bottles.  The  thing  is  simply  not  done. 

Perhaps,  though,  we  might  have  muddled  through 
somehow,  had  not  my  violinist  friend,  during  a  rest, 

I  s  1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

poked  me  cruelly  in  the  ribs  with  his  bow  and  remarked 
in  a  coarse  stage  whisper,  'Look  who's  there!' 

I  looked,  and  gave  a  gasp.  It  might  have  passed 
for  an  excellent  rehearsal  of  my  last  gasp.  In  the  very 
front  row  sat  —  father!  He  appeared  sardonic  and 
businesslike.  The  fatal  formula  seemed  already  to  be 
trembling  upon  his  lips.  The  remnants  of  B,  C,  D, 
and  so  forth  suddenly  blurred  before  my  crossed  eyes. 
With  the  most  dismal  report  our  old  bottle  of  cham 
ber  music  blew  up,  and  I  fled  from  the  scene. 

'My  son,  come  into  my  study.' 

In  an  ague  I  had  waited  half  the  evening  for  those 
hated  words;  and  with  laggard  step  and  miserable  fore 
bodings  I  followed  across  the  hall.  But  the  day  was 
destined  to  end  in  still  another  surprise.  When  father 
finally  faced  me  in  that  awful  sanctum,  he  was  actu 
ally  smiling  in  the  jolliest  manner,  and  I  divined  that 
the  rod  was  going  to  be  spared. 

'What's  all  this?7  he  inquired.  'Thought  you'd 
surprise  your  old  dad,  eh?  Come,  tell  me  about  it.' 

So  I  told  him  about  it;  and  he  was  so  sympathetic 
that  I  found  courage  for  the  great  request. 

'Pa,'  I  stammered,  'sometimes  I  think  p'raps  I 
don't  hold  the  bow  just  right.  It  scratches  so.  Please 
might  I  take  just  four  lessons  from  a  regular  teacher 
so  I  could  learn  all  about  how  to  play  the  'cello? ' 

Father  choked  a  little.  But  he  looked  jollier  than 
ever  as  he  replied,  'Yes,  my  son,  on  condition  that 
[  6  ] 


FIDDLERS  ERRANT 

you  promise  to  lay  the  flute  entirely  aside  until  you 
have  learned  all  about  how  to  play  the  'cello.* 

I  promised. 

I  have  faithfully  kept  that  promise. 

II 

Fiddlers  errant  are  apt  to  rush  in  and  occupy  the 
centre  of  the  stage  where  angels  in  good  and  regular 
practice  fear  even  to  tune  up.  One  of  the  errant's  pet 
vagaries  is  to  volunteer  his  services  in  orchestras  too 
good  for  him.  Not  long  after  discovering  that  I  would 
need  more  than  four  lessons  to  learn  quite  all  there 
was  to  know  about  the  'cello,  —  in  fact,  just  nine 
months  after  discovering  the  coffin  in  the  attic,  —  I 
'rushed  in.'  Hearing  that  The  Messiah  was  to  be  given 
at  Christmas,  I  approached  the  conductor  and  magnil- 
oquently  informed  him  that  I  was  a  'cellist  and  that, 
seeing  he  was  he,  I  would  contribute  my  services  with 
out  money  and  without  price  to  the  coming  perform 
ance. 

With  a  rather  dubious  air  my  terms  were  accepted. 
That  same  evening  at  rehearsal  I  found  that  the  entire 
bass  section  of  the  orchestra  consisted  of  three  'cellos. 
These  were  presided  over  by  an  inaudible,  and  there 
fore  negligible,  little  girl,  a  hoary  sage  who  always 
arrived  very  late  and  left  very  early,  and  myself.  I 
shall  never  forget  my  sensations  when  the  sage,  at  a 
crucial  point,  suddenly  packed  up  and  left  me,  an 

t   7  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

undeveloped  musical  Atlas,  to  bear  the  entire  weight 
of  the  orchestra  on  one  pair  of  puny  shoulders.  Under 
these  conditions  it  was  a  memorable  ordeal  to  read  at 
sight  'The  Trumpet  Shall  Sound.'  The  trumpet 
sounded,  indeed.  That  was  more  than  the  'cello  did 
in  certain  passages!  As  for  the  dead  being  raised, 
however,  that  happened  according  to  programme. 

After  this  high-tension  episode,  I  pulled  myself  to 
gether,  only  to  fall  into  a  cruel  and  unusual  pit  which 
the  treacherous  Handel  dug  for  'cellists  by  writing  one 
single  passage  in  that  unfamiliar  alto  clef  which  looks 
so  much  like  the  usual  tenor  clef  that  before  the  least 
suspicion  of  impending  disaster  dawns,  you  are  down 
in  the  pit,  hopelessly  floundering. 

I  emerged  from  this  rehearsal  barely  alive;  but  I 
had  really  enjoyed  myself  so  much  more  than  I  had 
suffered,  or  made  others  suffer,  that  my  initial  im 
pulse  to  rush  at  sight  into  strange  orchestras  now 
became  stereotyped  into  a  habit.  Since  then  what 
delightful  evenings  I  have  spent  in  the  old  Cafe  Martin 
and  in  the  old  Cafe  Boulevarde  where  my  'cellist 
friends  in  the  orchestras  were  ever  ready  to  resign 
their  instruments  into  my  hands  for  a  course  or  two, 
and  the  leader  always  let  me  pick  out  the  music! 

But  one  afternoon  in  upper  Broadway  I  met  with 
the  sort  of  adventure  that  figures  in  the  fondest 
dreams  of  fiddlers  errant.  I  had  strolled  into  the 
nearest  hotel  to  use  the  telephone.  As  I  passed  through 

[  8  ] 


FIDDLERS  ERRANT 

the  restaurant,  my  attention  was  caught  by  a  vaguely 
familiar  strain  from  the  musicians'  gallery.  Surely 
this  was  unusual  spiritual  provender  to  offer  a  crowd 
of  typical  New  York  diners!  More  and  more  ab 
sorbed  in  trying  to  recognize  the  music,  I  sank  into 
an  armchair  in  the  lobby,  the  telephone  quite  forgotten. 
The  instruments  were  working  themselves  up  to  some 
magnificent  climax,  and  working  me  up  at  the  same 
time.  It  began  to  sound  more  and  more  like  the 
greatest  of  all  music,  —  the  musician's  very  holiest  of 
holies.  Surely  I  must  be  dreaming!  My  fingers 
crooked  themselves  for  a  pinch.  But  just  then  the 
unseen  instruments  swung  back  into  the  opening  theme 
of  the  Brahms  piano  quartette  in  A  major.  Merciful 
heavens!  A  Brahms  quartette  in  Broadway?  Pan  in 
Wall  Street?  Silence.  With  three  jumps  I  was  up  in 
the  little  gallery,  wringing  the  hands  of  those  per 
formers  and  calling  down  blessings  upon  their  quixo 
tism  as  musical  missionaries.  l  Missionaries? '  echoed 
the  leader  in  amusement.  'Ah,  no.  We  could  never 
hope  to  convert  those  down  there.'  He  waved  a  scorn 
ful  hand  at  the  consumers  of  lobster  below.  'Now 
and  then  we  play  Brahms  just  in  order  that  we  may 
save  our  own  souls.'  The  'cellist  rose,  saluted,  and 
extended  his  bow  in  my  direction,  like  some  proud 
commander  surrendering  his  sword.  'Will  it  please 
you,'  he  inquired,  kto  play  the  next  movement?'  It 
pleased  me. 

[  9  1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

in 

Fiddlers  errant  find  that  traveling  with  a  'cello  is 
almost  as  good  —  and  almost  as  bad  —  as  traveling 
with  a  child.  It  helps  you,  for  example,  in  cultivating 
friendly  relations  with  fellow  passengers.  Suppose 
there  is  a  broken  wheel,  or  the  engineer  is  waiting  for 
Number  26  to  pass,  or  you  are  stalled  for  three  days 
in  a  blizzard,  —  what  more  jolly  than  to  undress  your 
'cello  and  play  each  of  those  present  the  tune  he  would 
most  like  to  hear,  and  lead  the  congregational  sing 
ing  of  'Dixie/  'Tipperary/  l Drink  to  me  only/  and 
'Home,  Sweet  Home'?  A  fiddle  may  even  make  ten 
able  one  of  those  railway  junctions  which  Stevenson 
cursed  as  the  nadir  of  intrinsic  uninterestingness,  and 
which  Mr.  Clayton  Hamilton  praised  with  such  brio. 

But  this  is  only  the  bright  side.  In  some  ways 
traveling  with  a  'cello  is  as  uncomfortable  as  traveling, 
not  only  with  a  baby,  but  with  a  donkey.  Unless 
indeed  you  have  an  instrument  with  a  convenient 
hinged  door  in  the  back  so  that  you  may  pack  it  full 
of  pyjamas,  collars,  brushes,  MSS,  and  so  forth,  thus 
dispensing  with  a  bag;  or  unless  you  can  calk  up  its 
/  holes  and  use  the  instrument  as  a  canoe  on  occasion, 
a  'cello  is  about  as  inconvenient  a  traveling  companion 
as  the  corpse  in  R.L.S.'s  tale,  which  would  insist  on 
getting  into  the  wrong  box. 

Some  idea  of  the  awkwardness  of  taking  the  'cello 
[  10  ] 


FIDDLERS  ERRANT 

along  in  a  sleeping  car  may  be  gathered  from  its 
nicknames.  It  is  called  the  'bull-fiddle.'  It  is  called 
the  'dog-house.'  But,  unlike  either  bulls  or  kennels, 
it  cannot  safely  be  forwarded  by  freight  or  express. 
The  formula  for  Pullman  travel  with  a  'cello  is  as 
follows:  First  ascertain  whether  the  conductor  will  let 
you  aboard  with  the  instrument.  If  not,  try  the  next 
train.  When  successful,  fee  the  porter  heavily  at  sight, 
thus  softening  his  heart  so  that  he  will  assign  the  only 
spare  upper  birth  to  your  baby.  And  warn  him  in 
impressive  tones  that  the  instrument  is  priceless,  and 
on  no  account  to  touch  it.  You  need  not  fear  thieves. 
Sooner  than  steal  a  'cello,  the  light-fingered  would 
button  his  coat  over  a  baby  white  elephant  and  let 
it  tusk  his  vitals. 

I  have  cause  to  remember  my  first  and  only  holiday 
trip  with  the  Princeton  Glee,  Mandolin,  and  Banjo 
Clubs.  My  function  being  to  play  solos  and  to  assist 
the  Mandolin  Club,  I  demanded  for  the  'cello  an  upper 
berth  in  the  special  car.  But  I  was  overwhelmed  with 
howls  of  derision  and  assurances  that  I  was  a  very 
fresh  soph  indeed.  The  first  night,  my  instrument 
reposed  in  some  mysterious  recess  under  a  leaky  cooler, 
where  all  too  much  water  flowed  under  its  bridge  be 
fore  the  dawn.  The  second  night  it  was  compressed 
into  a  strait  and  narrow  closet  with  brushes  and 
brooms,  whence  it  emerged  with  a  hollow  chest,  a 
stoop,  a  consumptive  quality  of  voice,  and  the  malady 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

known  as  compressio  pontis.  Thereafter  it  occupied 
the  same  upper  with  me.  Twice  I  overlaid  it,  with 
well-nigh  fatal  consequences. 

Short-distance  travel  with  a  'cello  is  not  much  more 
agreeable.  In  trolleys  you  have  to  hold  it  more  deli 
cately  than  any  babe,  and  be  ready  to  give  a  straight- 
arm  to  any  one  who  lurches  in  your  direction,  and  to 
raise  it  from  the  floor  every  time  you  jolt  over  cross- 
tracks  or  run  over  pedestrians,  for  fear  of  jarring  the 
delicate  adjustment  of  the  sound-post.  As  for  a  holi 
day  crush  down  town,  the  best  way  to  negotiate  it 
with  a  'cello  is  to  fix  the  sharp  end-pin  in  place,  and 
then,  holding  the  instrument  at  charge  like  a  bayonet, 
impale  those  who  seem  most  likely  to  break  its  ribs. 

After  my  full  share  of  such  experiences,  I  learned 
that  if  you  are  a  fiddler  errant  it  is  better  to  leave 
your  instrument  at  home  and  live  on  the  country,  as 
it  were,  trusting  to  the  fact  that  you  can  beg,  borrow, 
or  rent  some  kind  of  fiddle  and  of  chamber  music 
almost  anywhere,  if  you  know  how  to  go  about  it. 

IV 

Only  don't  try  it  in  Sicily! 

For  several  months  I  had  buried  the  fiddler  in  the 
errant  pure  and  simple,  when,  one  sunset,  across  a 
gorge  in  Monte  Venere,  my  first  strain  of  Sicilian  mu 
sic  floated,  to  reawaken  in  me  all  the  primeval  instincts 
of  the  musical  adventurer.  The  melody  came  from  the 

[     12     ] 


FIDDLERS  ERRANT 

reed  pipe  of  a  goat-herd  as  he  drove  his  flock  down 
into  Taormina.  Such  a  pipe  was  perhaps  to  Theo^. ' 
critus  what  the  fiddles  of  Stradivarius  are  to  us.  It 
was  pleasant  to  imagine  that  this  goat-herd's  music 
might  possibly  be  the  same  that  used  to  inspire  the 
tenderest  of  Sicilian  poets  twenty-three  hundred  years 
ago. 

Piercingly  sweet,  indescribably  pathetic,  the  melody 
recalled  the  Largo  in  Dvorak's  New  World  Symphony. 
Yet,  there  on  the  mountain-side,  with  ^Etna  rosy  on 
the  right,  and  the  purple  Mediterranean  shimmering 
far  below,  the  voice  of  the  reed  sounded  more  divine 
than  any  English  horn  or  Boehm  flute  I  had  ever 
heard  singing  in  the  depths  of  a  modern  orchestra. 
And  I  began  to  doubt  whether  music  was  so  completely 
a  product  of  the  last  three  centuries  as  it  purported 
to  be. 

But  that  evening,  when  the  goat-herd,  ensnared  by 
American  gold,  turned  himself  into  a  modern  cham 
ber  musician  in  our  hotel  room,  I  regained  poise.  Re 
moved  from  its  properly  romantic  setting,  like  sea 
weed  from  the  sea,  the  pastoral  stop  of  Theocritus 
became  unmistakably  a  penny  whistle,  with  an  into 
nation  of  the  whistle's  conventional  purity.  Our  cap 
tured  Comatas  seemed  to  realize  that  the  environ 
ment  was  against  him  and  that  things  were  going 
'contrairy';  for  he  refused  to  venture  on  any  of  the 
soft  Lydian  airs  of  Monte  Venere,  and  confined  him- 

[  13 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

self  strictly  to  tarantellas,  native  dances,  which  he 
played  with  a  magnificent  feeling  for  rhythm  (if  not 
for  in-tuneness)  while,  with  a  pencil,  I  caught  —  or 
muffed  —  them  on  the  fly.  One  was  to  this  effect :  — 


Presto  vivace 


Da  Capo,  al  Fine 


While  this  was  going  on,  a  chance  hotel  acquaint 
ance  dropped  into  the  room  and  revealed  himself  as  a 

i  14 1 


FIDDLERS  ERRANT 

professor  by  explaining  that  the  tarantella  was  named 
for  its  birthplace,  the  old  Greek  city  of  Taranto  over 
yonder  in  the  heel  of  the  Italian  boot;  that  dancing 
it  was  once  considered  the  only  cure  for  the  maddening 
bite  of  the  spider  known  as  the  Lycosa  Tarantula;  and 
that  some  of  the  melodies  our  goat-herd  was  playing 
might  possibly  be  ancient  Greek  tunes,  handed  down 
traditionally  in  Taranto,  and  later  dispersed  over 
Calabria  and  Sicily. 

This  all  sounded  rather  academic.  But  his  next 
words  sent  the  little  professor  soaring  in  our  estima 
tion.  He  disclosed  himself  as  a  fiddler  errant  by  wist 
fully  remarking  that  all  this  made  him  long  for  two 
things:  his  violin,  and  a  chance  to  play  trios.  Right 
heartily  did  we  introduce  ourselves  as  pianist  and 
'cellist  errant  at  his  service.  And  he  and  I  decided  to 
visit  Catania  next  day  to  scout  for  fiddles  and  music. 
We  thought  we  would  look  for  the  music  first. 

Next  day,  accordingly,  we  invaded  the  largest  music 
store  in  Catania.  Did  they  have  trios  for  violin, 
violoncello,  and  piano?  'Certainly!'  We  were  shown 
a  derangement  of  La  Somnambula  for  violin  and  piano, 
and  another  for  'cello  and  piano.  If  we  omitted  one 
of  the  piano  parts,  we  were  assured,  a  very  beautiful 
trio  would  result,  as  surely  as  one  from  four  makes 
three. 

Finding  us  hard  to  please,  the  storekeeper  referred 
us  to  the  conductor  of  the  Opera,  who  offered  to  rentv 

[  is  1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

us  all  the  standard  works  of  chamber  music.  The 
' trios'  he  offered  us  turned  out  to  be  elementary 
pieces  labeled  'For  Piano  and  Violin  or  'Cello.'  But 
nothing  we  could  say  was  able  to  persuade  our  con 
ductor  that  'or'  did  not  mean  'and.'  To  this  day  I 
feel  sure  that  he  is  ready  to  defend  his  interpretation 
of  this  word  against  all  comers. 

We  turned  three  more  music  stores  upside  down  and 
had  already  abandoned  the  hunt  in  despair  when  we 
discovered  a  fourth  in  a  narrow  side  street.  There 
were  only  five  minutes  in  which  to  catch  the  train; 
but  in  thirty  seconds  we  had  unearthed  a  genuine 
piece  of  chamber  music.  Hallelujah!  it  was  the  finale 
of  the  first  Beethoven  trio! 

Suddenly  the  oil  of  joy  curdled  to  mourning.  The 
thing  was  an  arrangement  for  piano  solo!  We  left 
hurriedly  when  the  proprietor  began  assuring  us  that 
the  original  effect  would  be  secured  if  the  piano  was 
doubled  in  the  treble  by  the  violin  and  in  the  bass  by 
the  'cello. 

This  piano  solo  was  the  nearest  approach  to  chamber 
music  that  a  thorough  search  and  research  revealed 
in  the  island  of  Trinacria.  But  afterwards,  recollecting 
the  misadventure  in  tranquility,  we  concluded  that  it 
was  as  absurd  to  look  for  chamber  music  in  Sicily  as 
to  look  for  'Die  Wacht  am  Rhein'  among  the  idylls 
of  Theocritus. 

[   16  ] 


FIDDLERS  ERRANT 


SCENE  :  a  city  composed  of  one  department  store  and 
three  houses,  on  the  forbidding  shores  of  Newfound 
land. 

TIME:  one  of  those  times  when  a  fellow  needs  a 
friend,  —  when  he's  in  a  stern,  strange  land  on  pleasure 
bent  —  and  has  to  have  a  check  cashed.  I  don't  know 
why  it  is  that  one  always  runs  out  of  ready  money  in 
Newfoundland.  Perhaps  because  salmon  flies  are  such 
fleeting  creatures  of  a  day  that  you  must  send  many 
postal  orders  to  St.  Johns  for  more.  Perhaps  because 
the  customs  officials  at  Port  au  Basques  make  you 
deposit  so  much  duty  on  your  fishing  tackle.  At  any 
rate,  there  I  was  penniless,  with  the  burly  storekeeper 
scowling  in  a  savage  manner  at  my  check  and  not 
knowing  at  all  whether  to  take  a  chance  on  it.  Finally 
he  thought  he  would  n't,  but  conceded  that  I  might 
spend  a  night  under  his  roof,  as  there  was  really  no 
where  else  to  go. 

At  this  pass  something  made  me  think  of  music. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  parlor  piano  which,  when  new,  back 
in  the  stone  age,  had  probably  been  in  tune.  I  in 
quired  whether  there  were  any  other  instruments. 
The  wreckage  of  a  violin  was  produced.  With  two 
pieces  of  string  and  a  table  fork  I  set  up  the  prostrate 
sound-post.  I  glued  together  the  bridge  and  put  it 
in  position.  The  technique  of  the  angler  proved  helpful 

[  17  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

in  splicing  together  some  strange-looking  strings.  The 
A  was  eked  out  with  a  piece  of  salmon  leader,  while 
an  old  mandolin  yielded  a  wire  E. 

When  all  was  at  last  ready,  a  fresh  difficulty  oc 
curred  to  me.  The  violin  was  an  instrument  which  I 
had  never  learned  to  play !  But  necessity  is  the  mother 
of  pretension.  I  thought  of  that  check.  And  placing 
the  small  fiddle  carefully  between  my  knees,  I  pre 
tended  that  it  was  a  'cello. 

So  the  daughter  of  the  house  seated  herself  at  the 
relic  of  the  stone  age,  and  we  had  a  concert.  New 
foundland  appeared  not  to  be  over-finicky  in  the  mat 
ter  of  pitch  and  tone-quality.  And  how  it  did  enjoy 
music!  As  the  audience  was  of  Scotch-English-Irish 
descent,  we  rendered  equal  parts  of i  Comin '  Through 
the  Rye/  'God  Save  the  King,'  and  'Kathleen  Mav- 
ourneen.'  Then  the  proprietor  requested  the  Sextette  ' 
from  Lucia.  While  it  was  forthcoming  he  toyed  fur 
tively  with  his  bandana.  When  it  ceased  he  encored 
it  with  all  his  might.  Then  he  slipped  out  storewards 
and  presently  returned  with  the  fattest,  blackest, 
most  formidable-looking  cigar  I  ever  saw,  which  he 
gravely  proffered  me. 

1  We  like/  he  remarked  in  his  quaint  idiom,  'to  hear 
music  at  scattered  times.'  He  was  trying  to  affect 
indifference.  But  his  gruff  voice  shook,  and  I  knew 
then  that  music  hath  charms  to  cash  the  savage 
check. 

[   18  ] 


FIDDLERS  ERRANT 

VI 

This  essay  has  rambled  on  an  unconscionable  while. 
The  shades  of  editorial  night  are  already  descending; 
and  still  I  have  not  yet  described  one  of  those  unex 
pected  and  perfect  orgies  of  chamber  music,  —  one  of 
those  little  earthly  paradises  full  of 

Soul-satisfying  strains  —  alas !  too  few,  — 
which  true  fiddlers  errant  hope  to  find  in  each  new 
place  they  visit,  but  which  usually  keep  well  in  ad 
vance  of  them,  like  the  foot  of  the  rainbow. 

One  such  adventure  came  to  me  not  long  ago  in  a 
California  city,  while  I  was  gathering  material  for  a 
book  of  travel.  On  my  first  evening  there  I  was  taken 
to  dine  with  a  well-known  writer  in  his  beautiful 
home,  which  he  had  built  with  his  own  two  hands  in 
the  Spanish  mission  style  during  fourteen  years  of 
joyous  labor.  This  gentleman  had  no  idea  that  I  was 
to  be  thrust  upon  him.  But  his  hospitality  went  so 
far  as  to  insist,  before  the  evening  was  over,  that  I 
must  stay  a  week.  He  would  not  take  no  for  an 
answer.  And  for  my  part  I  had  no  desire  to  say  no, 
because  he  was  a  delightful  person,  his  home  with  its 
leaf -filled  patio  was  most  alluring,  and  I  had  dis 
covered  promising  possibilities  for  fiddlers  errant  in 
the  splendid  music-room  and  the  collection  of  phono 
graph  records  of  Indian  music  which  mine  host  had 
himself  made  in  Arizona  and  New  Mexico.  Then  too 

i  19 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

there  were  rumors  of  skillful  musical  vagabonds  in  the 
vicinity. 

Such  an  environment  fairly  cried  aloud  for  im 
promptu  riddling.  So,  armed  with  a  note  to  the  best 
violinist  in  that  part  of  California,  I  set  forth  next 
morning  on  the  trail  of  the  ideal  orgy.  At  the  address 
given  I  was  told  that  my  man  had  moved  and  his  ad 
dress  was  not  known.  That  was  a  setback,  indeed! 
But  determined  fiddlers  errant  usually  land  on  their 
feet.  On  the  way  back  I  chanced  to  hear  some  mas 
terly  strains  of  Bach-on- the-violin  issuing  from  a 
brown  bungalow.  And  ringing  at  a  venture  I  was 
confronted  by  the  very  man  I  sought. 

Blocking  the  doorway,  he  read  the  note,  looking  as 
bored  as  professionals  usually  do  when  asked  to  play 
with  amateurs.  But  just  as  he  began  to  tell  me  how 
busy  he  was  and  how  impossible,  and  so  forth,  he 
happened  to  glance  again  at  the  envelope,  and  a  very 
slight  gleam  came  into  his  eye. 

4  You 're  not  by  any  chance  the  fellow  who  wrote 
that  thing  about  fiddlers  in  the  Atlantic,  are  you?'  he 
inquired.  At  my  nod  he  very  flatteringly  unblocked 
the  doorway  and  dragged  me  inside,  pumping  my  hand 
up  and  down  in  a  painful  manner,  shouting  for  his 
wife,  and  making  various  kind  representations,  all  at 
the  same  time.  And  his  talk  gradually  simmered  down 
into  an  argument  that  of  course  the  only  thing  to  do 
was  to  fiddle  together  that  very  night. 

[     20     ] 


FIDDLERS  ERRANT 

I  asked  who  had  the  best  'cello  in  town.  He  told 
me  the  man's  name,  but  looked  dubious.  'The  trouble 
is,  he  loves  that  big  Amati  as  if  it  were  twins.  I  doubt 
if  he  could  bring  himself  to  lend  it  to  any  one.  Any 
way,  let 's  try.' 

He  scribbled  a  card  to  his  'cellist  friend  and  prom 
ised,  if  I  were  successful,  to  bring  along  a  good  pianist 
and  play  trios  in  the  evening.  So  I  set  forth  on  the 
trail  of  the  Amati.  Its  owner  had  just  finished  his 
noonday  stint  in  a  hotel  orchestra  and  looked  some 
what  tired  and  cross.  He  glanced  at  the  card  and  then 
assumed  a  most  conservative  expression  and  tried  to 
fob  off  on  me  a  cheap  'cello  belonging  to  one  of  his 
pupils,  which  sounded  very  much  as  a  three-cent 
cigar  tastes.  At  this  point  I  gave  him  the  secret 
thumb-position  grip  and  whispered  into  his  ear  one 
of  those  magic  pass  words  of  the  craft  which  in  a  trice 
convinced  him  that  I  was  in  a  position  to  dandle  a 
'cello  with  as  tender  solicitude  as  any  man  alive.  On 
my  promising,  moreover,  to  taxicab  it  both  ways  with 
the  sacred  burden,  he  passed  the  Amati  over,  and  the 
orgy  of  fiddlers  errant  was  assured. 

And  that  night  how  those  beautiful  Spanish  walls 
did  resound  to  Beethoven  and  Dvorak  and  Brahms, 
most  originally  interspersed  with  the  voice  of  the 
Mexican  servant's  guitar,  with  strange,  lovely  songs 
of  the  aboriginal  West  and  South,  —  and  with  the 
bottled  sunshine  of  Calif ornian  hill-slopes;  while  El 

[     21     ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

Alcalde  Maiore,  the  lone  gnarled  tree-giant  that  filled 
the  patio,  looked  in  through  the  open  windows  and 
contributed,  by  way  of  accompaniment,  leafy  arpeg 
gios  sotto  wee.  And  sometimes,  during  rests,  I  remem 
bered  to  be  thankful  that  I  had  once  snapped  my 
fingers  at  the  howling  wolf,  and  at  fat  pot-boilers, 
while  I  scribbled  for  the  Atlantic  that  little  essay  on 
fiddlers  which  had  gained  me  this  priceless  evening. 


Turtle  Eggs  for  Agassiz 

By  Dallas  Lore  Sharp 

IT  is  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  world  that  so  few 
books  are  written.  With  every  human  being  a  possible 
book,  and  with  many  a  human  being  capable  of  be 
coming  more  books  than  the  world  could  contain,  is  it 
not  amazing  that  the  books  of  men  are  so  few?  and 
so  stupid! 

I  took  down,  recently,  from  the  shelves  of  a  great 
public  library,  the  four  volumes  of  Agassiz's  Contribu 
tions  to  the  Natural  History  of  the  United  States.  I 
doubt  if  anybody  but  the  charwoman,  with  her  duster, 
had  touched  those  volumes  for  twenty-five  years. 
They  are  an  excessively  learned,  a  monumental,  an 
epoch-making  work,  the  fruit  of  vast  and  heroic  labors, 
with  colored  plates  on  stone,  showing  the  turtles  of  the 
United  States,  and  their  embryology.  The  work  was 
published  more  than  half  a  century  ago  (by  subscrip 
tion)  ;  but  it  looked  old  beyond  its  years  —  massive, 
heavy,  weathered,  as  if  dug  from  the  rocks.  It  was 
difficult  to  feel  that  Agassiz  could  have  written  it  - 
could  have  built  it,  grown  it,  for  the  laminated  pile 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

had  required  for  its  growth,  the  patience  and  pains 
taking  care  of  a  process  of  nature,  as  if  it  were  a  kind 
of  printed  coral  reef.  Agassiz  do  this?  The  big,  human, 
magnetic  man  at  work  upon  these  pages  of  capital 
letters,  Roman  figures,  brackets,  and  parentheses  in 
explanation  of  the  pages  of  diagrams  and  plates!  I 
turned  away  with  a  sigh  from  the  weary  learning,  to 
read  the  preface. 

When  a  great  man  writes  a  great  book  he  usually 
flings  a  preface  after  it,  and  thereby  saves  it,  some 
times,  from  oblivion.  Whether  so  or  not,  the  best 
things  in  most  books  are  their  prefaces.  It  was  not, 
however,  the  quality  of  the  preface  to  these  great 
volumes  that  interested  me,  but  rather  the  wicked 
waste  of  durable  book-material  that  went  to  its  mak 
ing.  Reading  down  through  the  catalogue  of  human 
names  and  of  thanks  for  help  received,  I  came  to  a 
sentence  beginning:  — 

1  In  New  England  I  have  myself  collected  largely; 
but  I  have  also  received  valuable  contributions  from 
the  late  Rev.  Zadoc  Thompson  of  Burlington;  .  .  . 
from  Mr.  D.  Henry  Thoreau  of  Concord;  .  .  .  and  from 
Mr.  J.  W.  P.  Jenks  of  MiddleboroV  And  then  it 
hastens  on  with  the  thanks  in  order  to  get  to  the 
turtles,  as  if  turtles  were  the  one  and  only  thing  of  real 
importance  in  all  the  world. 

Turtles  no  doubt  are  important,  extremely  impor 
tant,  embryologically,  as  part  of  our  genealogical  tree; 

[    24   ] 


TURTLE  EGGS  FOR  AGASSIZ 

but  they  are  away  down  among  the  roots  of  the  tree 
as  compared  with  the  late  Rev.  Zadoc  Thompson  of 
Burlington.  I  happen  to  know  nothing  about  the 
Rev.  Zadoc,  but  to  me  he  looks  very  interesting.  In 
deed  any  reverend  gentleman  of  his  name  and  day 
who  would  catch  turtles  for  Agassiz  must  have  been 
interesting.  And  as  for  Henry  Thoreau,  we  know  he 
was  interesting.  The  rarest  wood-turtle  in  the  United 
States  was  not  so  rare  a  specimen  as  this  gentleman  of 
Walden  Woods  and  Concord.  We  are  glad  even  for 
this  line  in  the  preface  about  him;  glad  to  know  that 
he  tried,  in  this  untranscendental  way,  to  serve  his 
day  and  generation.  If  Agassiz  had  only  put  a  chapter 
in  his  turtle  book  about  it!  But  this  is  the  material  he 
wasted,  this  and  more  of  the  same  human  sort,  for  the 
Mr.  Jenks  of  Middleboro'  (at  the  end  of  the  quota 
tion)  was,  years  later,  an  old  college  professor  of  mine, 
who  told  me  some  of  the  particulars  of  his  turtle  con- 
tributions/particulars  which  Agassiz  should  have  found 
a  place  for  in  his  big  book.  The  preface  says  merely 
that  this  gentleman  sent  turtles  to  Cambridge  by  the 
thousands  —  brief  and  scanty  recognition.  For  that  is 
not  the  only  thing  this  gentleman  did.  On  one  occasion 
he  sent,  not  turtles,  but  turtle  eggs  to  Cambridge  — 
brought  them,  I  should  say;  and  all  there  is  to  show  for 
it,  so  far  as  I  could  discover,  is  a  sectional  drawing  of 
a  bit  of  the  mesoblastic  layer  of  one  of  the  eggs! 
Of  course,  Agassiz  wanted  to  make  that  mesoblastic 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

drawing,  or  some  other  equally  important  drawing,  and 
had  to  have  the  fresh  turtle  egg  to  draw  it  from.  He 
had  to  have  it,  and  he  got  it.  A  great  man,  when  he 
wants  a  certain  turtle  egg,  at  a  certain  time,  always 
gets  it,  for  he  gets  someone  else  to  get  it.  I  am  glad  he 
got  it.  But  what  makes  me  sad  and  impatient  is  that 
he  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  tell  about  the  get 
ting  of  it,  and  so  made  merely  a  learned  turtle  book 
of  what  might  have  been  an  exceedingly  interesting 
human  book. 

It  would  seem,  naturally,  that  there  could  be  noth 
ing  unusual  or  interesting  about  the  getting  of  turtle 
eggs  when  you  want  them.  Nothing  at  all,  if  you 
should  chance  to  want  the  eggs  as  you  chance  to  find 
them.  So  with  anything  else,  —  good  copper  stock,  for 
instance,  if  you  should  chance  to  want  it,  and  should 
chance  to  be  along  when  they  chance  to  be  giving  it 
away.  But  if  you  want  copper  stock,  say  of  C  &  H 
quality,  when  you  want  it,  and  are  bound  to  have  it, 
then  you  must  command  more  than  a  college  pro 
fessor's  salary.  And  likewise,  precisely,  when  it  is 
turtle  eggs  that  you  are  bound  to  have. 

Agassiz  wanted  those  turtle  eggs  when  he  wanted 
them  —  not  a  minute  over  three  hours  from  the  minute 
they  were  laid.  Yet  even  that  does  not  seem  exacting, 
hardly  more  difficult  than  the  getting  of  hen  eggs  only 
three  hours  old.  Just  so,  provided  the  professor  could 
have  had  his  private  turtle-coop  in  Harvard  Yard;  and 
[  26  ] 


TURTLE  EGGS  FOR  AGASSIZ 

provided  he  could  have  made  his  turtles  lay.  But 
turtles  will  not  respond,  like  hens,  to  meat-scraps  and 
the  warm  mash.  The  professor's  problem  was  not  to 
get  from  a  mud  turtle's  nest  in  the  back  yard  to  the 
table  in  the  laboratory;  but  to  get  from  the  laboratory 
in  Cambridge  to  some  pond  when  the  turtles  were 
laying,  and  back  to  the  laboratory  within  the  limited 
time.  And  this,  in  the  days  of  Darius  Green,  might 
have  called  for  nice  and  discriminating  work  —  as  it 
did. 

Agassiz  had  been  engaged  for  a  long  time  upon  his 
Contributions.  He  had  brought  the  great  work  nearly 
to  a  finish.  It  was,  indeed,  finished  but  for  one  small 
yet  very  important  bit  of  observation:  he  had  carried 
the  turtle  egg  through  every  stage  of  its  development 
with  the  single  exception  of  one  —  the  very  earliest  - 
that  stage  of  first  cleavages,  when  the  cell  begins  to 
segment,  immediately  upon  its  being  laid.  That  be 
ginning  stage  had  brought  the  Contributions  to  a  halt. 
To  get  eggs  that  were  fresh  enough  to  show  the  incu 
bation  at  this  period  had  been  impossible. 

There  were  several  ways  that  Agassiz  might  have 
proceeded:  he  might  have  got  a  leave  of  absence  for 
the  spring  term,  taken  his  laboratory  to  some  pond 
inhabited  by  turtles,  and  there  camped  until  he  should 
catch  the  reptile  digging  out  her  nest.  But  there  were 
difficulties  in  all  of  that  —  as  those  who  are  college 
professors  and  naturalists  know.  As  this  was  quite  out 

[  37 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

of  the  question,  he  did  the  easiest  thing  —  asked  Mr. 
Jenks  of  Middleboro'  to  get  him  the  eggs.  Mr.  Jenks 
got  them.  Agassiz  knew  all  about  his  getting  of  them; 
and  I  say  the  strange  and  irritating  thing  is,  that 
Agassiz  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  tell  us  about 
it,  at  least  in  the  preface  to  his  monumental  work. 

It  was  many  years  later  that  Mr.  Jenks,  then  a 
gray-haired  college  professor,  told  me  how  he  got  those 
eggs  to  Agassiz. 

1 1  was  principal  of  an  academy,  during  my  younger 
years/  he  began,  'and  was  busy  one  day  with  my 
classes,  when  a  large  man  suddenly  filled  the  door 
way  of  the  room,  smiled  to  the  four  corners  of  the 
room,  and  called  out  with  a  big,  quick  voice  that  he 
was  Professor  Agassiz. 

'Of  course  he  was.  I  knew  it,  even  before  he  had 
had  time  to  shout  it  to  me  across  the  room. 

'Would  I  get  him  some  turtle  eggs?  he  called.  Yes, 
I  would.  And  would  I  get  them  to  Cambridge  within 
three  hours  from  the  time  they  were  laid?  Yes,  I 
would.  And  I  did.  And  it  was  worth  the  doing.  But 
I  did  it  only  once. 

'When  I  promised  Agassiz  those  eggs  I  knew  where 
I  was  going  to  get  them.  I  had  got  turtle  eggs  there 
before  —  at  a  particular  patch  of  sandy  shore  along  a 
pond,  a  few  miles  distant  from  the  academy. 

'Three  hours  was  the  limit.  From  the  railroad  sta 
tion  to  Boston  was  thirty-five  miles;  from  the  pond  to 
f  28  1 


TURTLE  EGGS  FOR  AGASSIZ 

the  station  was  perhaps  three  or  four  miles;  from 
Boston  to  Cambridge  we  called  about  three  miles. 
Forty  miles  in  round  numbers!  We  figured  it  all  out 
before  he  returned,  and  got  the  trip  down  to  two  hours, 
—  record  time :  —  driving  from  the  pond  to  the  station; 
from  the  station  by  express  train  to  Boston;  from 
Boston  by  cab  to  Cambridge.  This  left  an  easy  hour 
for  accidents  and  delays. 

'Cab  and  car  and  carriage  we  reckoned  into  our 
time-table ;  but  what  we  did  n't  figure  on  was  the 
turtle.'  And  he  paused  abruptly. 

'Young  man/  he  went  on,  his  shaggy  brows  and 
spectacles  hardly  hiding  the  twinkle  in  the  eyes  that 
were  bent  severely  upon  me,  'young  man,  when  you  go 
after  turtle  eggs,  take  into  account  the  turtle.  No! 
no!  that's  bad  advice.  Youth  never  reckons  on  the 
turtle  —  and  youth  seldom  ought  to.  Only  old  age 
does  that;  and  old  age  would  never  have  got  those 
turtle  eggs  to  Agassiz. 

'  It  was  in  the  early  spring  that  Agassiz  came  to  the 
academy,  long  before  there  was  any  likelihood  of  the 
turtles  laying.  But  I  was  eager  for  the  quest,  and  so 
fearful  of  failure,  that  I  started  out  to  watch  at  the 
pond,  fully  two  weeks  ahead  of  the  time  that  the 
turtles  might  be  expected  to  lay.  I  remember  the  date 
clearly:  it  was  May  14. 

'A  little  before  dawn  —  along  near  three  o'clock  - 
I  would  drive  over  to  the  pond,  hitch  my  horse  near 

i  29  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

by,  settle  myself  quietly  among  some  thick  cedars 
close  to  the  sandy  shore,  and  there  I  would  wait, 
my  kettle  of  sand  ready,  my  eye  covering  the  whole 
sleeping  pond.  Here  among  the  cedars  I  would  eat 
my  breakfast,  and  then  get  back  in  good  season  to 
open  the  academy  for  the  morning  session. 

'And  so  the  watch  began. 

'  I  soon  came  to  know  individually  the  dozen  or  more 
turtles  that  kept  to  my  side  of  the  pond.  Shortly  after 
the  cold  mist  would  lift  and  melt  away,  they  would 
stick  up  their  heads  through  the  quiet  water;  and  as 
the  sun  slanted  down  over  the  ragged  rim  of  tree-tops, 
the  slow  things  would  float  into  the  warm,  lighted 
spots,  or  crawl  out  and  doze  comfortably  on  the  hum 
mocks  and  snags. 

'What  fragrant  mornings  those  were!  How  fresh 
and  new  and  unbreathed!  The  pond  odors,  the  woods 
odors,  the  odors  of  the  ploughed  fields  —  of  water-lily, 
and  wild  grape,  and  the  dew-laid  soil!  I  can  taste 
them  yet,  and  hear  them  yet  —  the  still,  large  sounds 
of  the  waking  day  —  the  pickerel  breaking  the  quiet 
with  his  swirl;  the  kingfisher  dropping  anchor;  the 
stir  of  feet  and  wings  among  the  trees.  And  then  the 
thought  of  the  great  book  being  held  up  for  me! 
Those  were  rare  mornings! 

'But  there  began  to  be  a  good  many  of  them,  for 
the  turtles  showed  no  desire  to  lay.  They  sprawled  in 
the  sun,  and  never  one  came  out  upon  the  sand  as  if 

[   30   ] 


TURTLE  EGGS  FOR  AGASSIZ 

she  intended  to  help  on  the  great  professor's  book. 
The  embryology  of  her  eggs  was  of  small  concern  to 
her;  her  contribution  to  the  Natural  History  of  the 
United  States  could  wait. 

'And  it  did  wait.  I  began  my  watch  on  the  i4th  of 
May;  June  first  found  me  still  among  the  cedars,  still 
waiting,  as  I  had  waited  every  morning,  Sundays  and 
rainy  days  alike.  June  first  was  a  perfect  morning,  but 
every  turtle  slid  out  upon  her  log,  as  if  egg-laying 
might  be  a  matter  strictly  of  next  year. 

'I  began  to  grow  uneasy,  —  not  impatient  yet,  for 
a  naturalist  learns  his  lesson  of  patience  early,  and 
for  all  his  years;  but  I  began  to  fear  lest,  by  some 
subtile  sense,  my  presence  might  somehow  be  known 
to  the  creatures;  that  they  might  have  gone  to  some 
other  place  to  lay,  while  I  was  away  at  the  school 
room. 

1 1  watched  on  to  the  end  of  the  first  week,  on  to  the 
end  of  the  second  week  in  June,  seeing  the  mists  rise 
and  vanish  every  morning,  and  along  with  them  van 
ish,  more  and  more,  the  poetry  of  my  early  morning 
vigil.  Poetry  and  rheumatism  cannot  long  dwell  to 
gether  in  the  same  clump  of  cedars,  and  I  had  begun 
to  feel  the  rheumatism.  A  month  of  morning  mists 
wrapping  me  around  had  at  last  soaked  through  to 
my  bones.  But  Agassiz  was  waiting,  and  the  world 
was  waiting,  for  those  turtle  eggs;  and  I  would  wait. 
It  was  all  I  could  do,  for  there  is  no  use  bringing  a 

t  3i   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

china  nest-egg  to  a  turtle;  she  is  not  open  to  any  such 
delicate  suggestion. 

'Then  came  a  mid- June  Sunday  morning,  with 
dawn  breaking  a  little  after  three :  a  warm,  wide-awake 
dawn,  with  the  level  mist  lifted  from  the  level  surface 
of  the  pond  a  full  hour  higher  than  I  had  seen  it  any 
morning  before. 

"This  was  the  day:  I  knew  it.  I  have  heard  persons 
say  that  they  can  hear  the  grass  grow;  that  they  know 
by  some  extra  sense  when  danger  is  nigh.  That  we 
have  these  extra  senses  I  fully  believe,  and  I  believe 
they  can  be  sharpened  by  cultivation.  For  a  month  I 
had  been  watching,  brooding  over  this  pond,  and  now 
I  knew.  I  felt  a  stirring  of  the  pulse  of  things  that  the 
cold-hearted  turtles  could  no  more  escape  than  could 
the  clods  and  I. 

4 Leaving  my  horse  unhitched,  as  if  he,  too,  under 
stood,  I  slipped  eagerly  into  my  covert  for  a  look  at 
the  pond.  As  I  did  so,  a  large  pickerel  ploughed  a 
furrow  out  through  the  spatter-docks,  and  in  his  wake 
rose  the  head  of  an  enormous  turtle.  Swinging  slowly 
around,  the  creature  headed  straight  for  the  shore,  and 
without  a  pause,  scrambled  out  on  the  sand. 

'She  was  about  the  size  of  a  big  scoop-shovel;  but 
that  was  not  what  excited  me,  so  much  as  her  manner, 
and  the  gait  at  which  she  moved;  for  there  was  method 
in  it  and  fixed  purpose.  On  she  came,  shuffling  over 
the  sand  toward  the  higher  open  fields,  with  a  hurried, 

1 32 1 


TURTLE  EGGS  FOR  AGASSIZ 

determined  see-saw  that  was  taking  her  somewhere  in 
particular,  and  that  was  bound  to  get  her  there  on 
time. 

'I  held  my  breath.  Had  she  been  a  dinosaurian 
making  Mesozoic  footprints,  I  could  not  have  been 
more  fearful.  For  footprints  in  the  Mesozoic  mud,  or 
in  the  sands  of  time,  were  as  nothing  to  me  when  com 
pared  with  fresh  turtle  eggs  in  the  sands  of  this  pond. 

'  But  over  the  strip  of  sand,  without  a  stop,  she 
paddled,  and  up  a  narrow  cow-path  into  the  high  grass 
along  a  fence.  Then  up  the  narrow  cow-path,  on  all 
fours,  just  like  another  turtle,  I  paddled,  and  into  the 
high,  wet  grass  along  the  fence. 

'I  kept  well  within  sound  of  her,  for  she  moved 
recklessly,  leaving  a  trail  of  flattened  grass  a  foot  and 
a  half  wide.  I  wanted  to  stand  up,  —  and  I  don't 
believe  I  could  have  turned  her  back  with  a  rail,  — 
but  I  was  afraid  if  she  saw  me  that  she  might  return 
indefinitely  to  the  pond;  so  on  I  went,  flat  to  the 
ground,  squeezing  through  the  lower  rails  of  the  fence, 
as  if  the  field  beyond  were  a  melon-patch.  It  was 
nothing  of  the  kind,  only  a  wild,  uncomfortable  pas 
ture,  full  of  dewberry  vines,  and  very  discouraging. 
They  were  excessively  wet  vines  and  briery.  I  pulled 
my  coat-sleeves  as  far  over  my  fists  as  I  could  get 
them,  and  with  the  tin  pail  of  sand  swinging  from  be 
tween  my  teeth  to  avoid  noise,  I  stumped  fiercely,  but 
silently,  on  after  the  turtle. 

[  33   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

'She  was  laying  her  course,  I  thought,  straight  down 
the  length  of  this  dreadful  pasture,  when,  not  far  from 
the  fence,  she  suddenly  hove  to,  warped  herself  short 
about,  and  came  back,  barely  clearing  me,  at  a  clip 
that  was  thrilling.  I  warped  about,  too,  and  in  her 
wake  bore  down  across  the  corner  of  the  pasture, 
across  the  powdery  public  road,  and  on  to  a  fence 
along  a  field  of  young  corn. 

'I  was  somewhat  wet  by  this  time,  but  not  so  wet 
as  I  had  been  before,  wallowing  through  the  deep,  dry 
dust  of  the  road.  Hurrying  up  behind  a  large  tree  by 
the  fence,  I  peered  down  the  corn-rows  and  saw  the 
turtle  stop,  and  begin  to  paw  about  in  the  loose,  soft 
soil.  She  was  going  to  lay! 

'  I  held  on  to  the  tree  and  watched,  as  she  tried  this 
place,  and  that  place,  and  the  other  place  —  the  eter 
nally  feminine!  —  But  the  place,  evidently,  was  hard 
to  find.  What  could  a  female  turtle  do  with  a  whole 
field  of  possible  nests  to  choose  from?  Then  at  last  she 
found  it,  and  whirling  about,  she  backed  quickly  at 
it,  and,  tail  first,  began  to  bury  herself  before  my 
staring  eyes. 

' Those  were  not  the  supreme  moments  of  my  life; 
perhaps  those  moments  came  later  that  day;  but 
those  certainly  were  among  the  slowest,  most  dread 
fully  mixed  of  moments  that  I  ever  experienced.  They 
were  hours  long.  There  she  was,  her  shell  just  show 
ing,  like  some  old  hulk  in  the  sand  alongshore.  And 

I  34  ] 


TURTLE  EGGS  FOR  AGASSIZ 

how  long  would  she  stay  there?  and  how  should  I 
know  if  she  had  laid  an  egg? 

'I  could  still  wait.  And  so  I  waited,  when,  over  the 
freshly  awakened  fields,  floated  four  mellow  strokes 
from  the  distant  town  clock. 

'Four  o'clock!  Why,  there  was  no  train  until  seven! 
No  train  for  three  hours !  The  eggs  would  spoil !  Then 
with  a  rush  it  came  over  me  that  this  was  Sunday 
morning,  and  there  was  no  regular  seven  o'clock  train, 
—  none  till  after  nine. 

'I  think  I  should  have  fainted  had  not  the  turtle 
just  then  begun  crawling  off.  I  was  weak  and  dizzy' 
but  there,  there  in  the  sand,  were  the  eggs !  and  Agassiz ! 
and  the  great  book!  And  I  cleared  the  fence,  and  the 
forty  miles  that  lay  between  me  and  Cambridge,  at  a 
single  jump.  He  should  have  them,  trains  or  no.  Those 
eggs  should  go  to  Agassiz  by  seven  o'clock,  if  I  had 
to  gallop  every  mile  of  the  way.  Forty  miles!  Any 
horse  could  cover  it  in  three  hours,  if  he  had  to;  and 
upsetting  the  astonished  turtle,  I  scooped  out  her 
round,  white  eggs. 

'On  a  bed  of  sand  in  the  bottom  of  the  pail  I  laid 
them,  with  what  care  my  trembling  fingers  allowed; 
filled  in  between  them  with  more  sand ;  so  with  another 
layer  to  the  rim ;  and  covering  all  smoothly  with  more 
sand,  I  ran  back  for  my  horse. 

'That  horse  knew,  as  well  as  I,  that  the  turtles  had 
laid,  and  that  he  was  to  get  those  eggs  to  Agassiz.  He 

[   35   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

turned  out  of  that  field  into  the  road  on  two  wheels,  a 
thing  he  had  not  done  for  twenty  years,  doubling  me 
up  before  the  dashboard,  the  pail  of  eggs  miraculously 
lodged  between  my  knees. 

'I  let  him  out.  If  only  he  could  keep  this  pace  all 
the  way  to  Cambridge!  or  even  half  way  there;  and  I 
would  have  time  to  finish  the  trip  on  foot.  I  shouted 
him  on,  holding  to  the  dasher  with  one  hand,  the  pail 
of  eggs  with  the  other,  not  daring  to  get  off  my  knees, 
though  the  bang  on  them,  as  we  pounded  down  the 
wood  road,  was  terrific.  But  nothing  must  happen  to 
the  eggs;  they  must  not  be  jarred,  or  even  turned  over 
in  the  sand  before  they  came  to  Agassiz. 

1  In  order  to  get  out  on  the  pike  it  was  necessary  to 
drive  back  away  from  Boston  toward  the  town.  We 
had  nearly  covered  the  distance,  and  were  rounding  a 
turn  from  the  woods  into  the  open  fields,  when,  ahead 
of  me,  at  the  station  it  seemed,  I  heard  the  quick 
sharp  whistle  of  a  locomotive. 

'What  did  it  mean?  Then  followed  the  puff,  puff, 
puff,  of  a  starting  train.  But  what  train?  Which  way 
going?  And  jumping  to  my  feet  for  a  longer  view,  I 
pulled  into  a  side  road,  that  paralleled  the  track,  and 
headed  hard  for  the  station. 

'We  reeled  along.  The  station  was  still  out  of  sight, 
but  from  behind  the  bushes  that  shut  it  from  view, 
rose  the  smoke  of  a  moving  engine.  It  was  perhaps  a 
mile  away,  but  we  were  approaching,  head  on,  and 

[  36  ] 


TURTLE  EGGS  FOR  AGASSIZ 

topping  a  little  hill  I  swept  down  upon  a  freight  train, 
the  black  smoke  pouring  from  the  stack,  as  the  mighty 
creature  pulled  itself  together  for  its  swift  run  down 
the  rails. 

'My  horse  was  on  the  gallop,  going  with  the  track, 
and  straight  toward  the  coming  train.  The  sight  of  it 
almost  maddened  me  —  the  bare  thought  of  it,  on  the 
road  to  Boston!  On  I  went;  on  it  came,  a  half  —  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  between  us,  when  suddenly  my  road 
shot  out  along  an  unfenced  field  with  only  a  level 
stretch  of  sod  between  me  and  the  engine. 

'With  a  pull  that  lifted  the  horse  from  his  feet,  I 
swung  him  into  the  field  and  sent  him  straight  as  an 
arrow  for  the  track.  That  train  should  carry  me  and 
my  eggs  to  Boston! 

1  The  engineer  pulled  the  rope.  He  saw  me  standing 
up  in  the  rig,  saw  my  hat  blow  off,  saw  me  wave  my 
arms,  saw  the  tin  pail  swing  in  my  teeth,  and  he 
jerked  out  a  succession  of  sharp  halts !  But  it  was  he 
who  should  halt,  not  I;  and  on  we  went,  the  horse  with 
a  flounder  landing  the  carriage  on  top  of  the  track. 

'The  train  was  already  grinding  to  a  stop;  but  be 
fore  it  was  near  a  standstill,  I  had  backed  off  the  track, 
jumped  out,  and,  running  down  the  rails  with  the 
astonished  engineers  gaping  at  me,  had  swung  aboard 
the  cab. 

'They  offered  no  resistance;  they  had  n't  had  time. 
Nor  did  they  have  the  disposition,  for  I  looked 

[  37   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

strange,  not  to  say  dangerous.  Hatless,  dew-soaked, 
smeared  with  yellow  mud,  and  holding,  as  if  it  were 
a  baby  or  a  bomb,  a  little  tin  pail  of  sand. 

'" Crazy,"  the  fireman  muttered,  looking  to  the 
engineer  for  his  cue. 

*I  had  been  crazy,  perhaps,  but  I  was  not  crazy  now. 

'"Throw  her  wide  open,"  I  commanded.  "Wide 
open!  These  are  fresh  turtle  eggs  for  Prof essor  Agassiz 
of  Cambridge.  He  must  have  them  before  breakfast." 

'Then  they  knew  I  was  crazy,  and  evidently  think 
ing  it  best  to  humor  me,  threw  the  throttle  wide  open, 
and  away  we  went. 

'I  kissed  my  hand  to  the  horse,  grazing  unconcern 
edly  in  the  open  field,  and  gave  a  smile  to  my  crew. 
That  was  all  I  could  give  them,  and  hold  myself  and 
the  eggs  together.  But  the  smile  was  enough.  And 
they  smiled  through  their  smut  at  me,  though  one  of 
them  held  fast  to  his  shovel,  while  the  other  kept  his 
hand  upon  a  big,  ugly  wrench.  Neither  of  them  spoke 
to  me,  but  above  the  roar  of  the  swaying  engine  I 
caught  enough  of  their  broken  talk  to  understand  that 
they  were  driving  under  a  full  head  of  steam,  with  the 
intention  of  handing  me  over  to  the  Boston  police,  as 
perhaps  the  easiest  way  of  disposing  of  me. 

'  I  was  only  afraid  that  they  would  try  it  at  the  next 
station.  But  that  station  whizzed  past  without  a  bit 
of  slack,  and  the  next,  and  the  next;  when  it  came 
over  me  that  this  was  the  through  freight,  which 

[  38  ] 


TURTLE  EGGS  FOR  AGASSIZ 

should  have  passed  in  the  night,  and  was  making  up 
lost  time. 

'Only  the  fear  of  the  shovel  and  the  wrench  kept 
me  from  shaking  hands  with  both  men  at  this  dis 
covery.  But  I  beamed  at  them;  and  they  at  me.  I 
was  enjoying  it.  The  unwonted  jar  beneath  my  feet 
was  wrinkling  my  diaphragm  with  spasms  of  delight. 
And  the  fireman  beamed  at  the  engineer,  with  a  look 
that  said,  "See  the  lunatic  grin;  he  likes  it!" 

'He  did  like  it.  How  the  iron  wheels  sang  to  me  as 
they  took  the  rails!  How  the  rushing  wind  in  my  ears 
sang  to  me!  From  my  stand  on  the  fireman's  side  of 
the  cab  I  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  track  just  ahead 
of  the  engine,  where  the  ties  seemed  to  leap  into  the 
throat  of  the  mile-devouring  monster.  The  joy  of  it! 
of  seeing  space  swallowed  by  the  mile! 

'I  shifted  the  eggs  from  hand  to  hand  and  thought 
of  my  horse,  of  Agassiz,  of  the  great  book,  of  my 
great  luck,  —  luck,  —  luck,  —  until  the  multitudinous 
tongues  of  the  thundering  train  were  all  chiming 
"luck!  luck!  luck!"  They  knew!  they  understood! 
This  beast  of  fire  and  tireless  wheels  was  doing  its 
very  best  to  get  the  eggs  to  Agassiz ! 

'We  swung  out  past  the  Blue  Hills,  and  yonder 
flashed  the  morning  sun  from  the  towering  dome  of  the 
State  House.  I  might  have  leaped  from  the  cab  and 
run  the  rest  of  the  way  on  foot,  had  I  not  caught  the 
eye  of  the  engineer  watching  me  narrowly.  I  was  not 

[   39   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

in  Boston  yet,  nor  in  Cambridge  either.  I  was  an 
escaped  lunatic,  who  had  held  up  a  train,  and  forced 
it  to  carry  me  to  Boston. 

'Perhaps  I  had  overdone  the  lunacy  business.  Sup 
pose  these  two  men  should  take  it  into  their  heads  to 
turn  me  over  to  the  police,  whether  I  would  or  no? 
I  could  never  explain  the  case  in  time  to  get  the  eggs 
to  Agassiz.  I  looked  at  my  watch.  There  were  still  a 
few  minutes  left,  in  which  I  might  explain  to  these 
men,  who,  all  at  once,  had  become  my  captors.  But 
it  was  too  late.  Nothing  could  avail  against  my  ac 
tions,  my  appearance,  and  my  little  pail  of  sand. 

'I  had  not  thought  of  my  appearance  before.  Here 
I  was,  face  and  clothes  caked  with  yellow  mud,  my 
hair  wild  and  matted,  my  hat  gone,  and  in  my  full- 
grown  hands  a  tiny  tin  pail  of  sand,  as  if  I  had  been 
digging  all  night  with  a  tiny,  tin  shovel  on  the  shore ! 
And  thus  to  appear  in  the  decent  streets  of  Boston  of 
a  Sunday  morning! 

'I  began  to  feel  like  a  hunted  criminal.  The  situa 
tion  was  serious,  or  might  be,  and  rather  desperately 
funny  at  its  best.  I  must  in  some  way  have  shown  my 
new  fears,  for  both  men  watched  me  more  sharply. 

*  Suddenly,  as  we  were  nearing  the  outer  freight- 
yard,  the  train  slowed  down  and  came  to  a  stop.  I  was 
ready  to  jump,  but  I  had  no  chance.  They  had  noth 
ing  to  do,  apparently,  but  to  guard  me.  I  looked  at 
my  watch  again.  What  time  we  had  made!  It  was 
[  40  ] 


TURTLE  EGGS  FOR  AGASSIZ 

only  six  o'clock,  with  a  whole  hour  to  get  to  Cam 
bridge. 

'But  I  did  n't  like  this  delay.  Five  minutes  —  ten 
—  went  by. 

1 "  Gentlemen,"  I  began,  but  was  cut  short  by  an 
express  train  coming  past.  We  were  moving  again,  on 
-  into  a  siding;  on  —  on  to  the  main  track;  and  on 
with  a  bump  and  a  crash  and  a  succession  of  crashes, 
running  the  length  of  the  train;  on  at  a  turtle's  pace, 
but  on,  —  when  the  fireman,  quickly  jumping  for  the 
bell-rope,  left  the  way  to  the  step  free,  and  —  the 
chance  had  come ! 

'I  never  touched  the  step,  but  landed  in  the  soft 
sand  at  the  side  of  the  track,  and  made  a  line  for  the 
yard  fence. 

'There  was  no  hue  or  cry.  I  glanced  over  my  shoul 
der  to  see  if  they  were  after  me.  Evidently  their  hands 
were  full,  and  they  did  n't  know  I  had  gone. 

'But  I  had  gone;  and  was  ready  to  drop  over  the 
high  board-fence,  when  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  might 
drop  into  a  policeman's  arms.  Hanging  my  pail  in  a 
splint  on  top  of  a  post,  I  peered  cautiously  over  —  a 
very  wise  thing  to  do  before  you  jump  a  high  board- 
fence.  There,  crossing  the  open  square  toward  the 
station,  was  a  big,  burly  fellow  with  a  club  —  looking 
for  me. 

'I  flattened  for  a  moment,  when  some  one  in  the 
yard  yelled  at  me.  I  preferred  the  policeman,  and 

1 41 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

grabbing  my  pail  I  slid  over  to  the  street.  The  police 
man  moved  on  past  the  corner  of  the  station  out  of 
sight.  The  square  was  free,  and  yonder  stood  a  cab ! 

1  Time  was  flying  now.  Here  was  the  last  lap.  The 
cabman  saw  me  coming,  and  squared  away.  I  waved 
a  paper  dollar  at  him,  but  he  only  stared  the  more.  A 
dollar  can  cover  a  good  deal,  but  I  was  too  much  for 
one  dollar.  I  pulled  out  another,  thrust  them  both  at 
him,  and  dodged  into  the  cab,  calling,  "  Cambridge !" 

'He  would  have  taken  me  straight  to  the  police 
station,  had  I  not  said,  "  Harvard  College.  Professor 
Agassiz's  house!  I've  got  eggs  for  Agassiz";  and 
pushed  another  dollar  up  at  him  through  the  hole. 

'  It  was  nearly  half -past  six. 

'"Let  him  go!"  I  ordered.  "Here's  another  dollar 
if  you  make  Agassiz's  house  in  twenty  minutes.  Let 
him  out;  never  mind  the  police!" 

'He  evidently  knew  the  police,  or  there  were  none 
around  at  that  time  on  a  Sunday  morning.  We  went 
down  the  sleeping  streets,  as  I  had  gone  down  the 
wood  roads  from  the  pond  two  hours  before,  but  with 
the  rattle  and  crash  now  of  a  fire  brigade.  Whirling 
a  corner  into  Cambridge  Street,  we  took  the  bridge  at 
a  gallop,  the  driver  shouting  out  something  in  Hiber 
nian  to  a  pair  of  waving  arms  and  a  belt  and  brass 
buttons. 

'Across  the  bridge  with  a  rattle  and  jolt  that  put 
the  eggs  in  jeopardy,  and  on  over  the  cobble-stones, 

t     42     ] 


TURTLE  EGGS  FOR  AGASSIZ 

we  went.  Half  standing,  to  lessen  the  jar,  I  held  the 
pail  in  one  hand  and  held  myself  in  the  other,  not 
daring  to  let  go  even  to  look  at  my  watch. 

'But  I  was  afraid  to  look  at  the  watch.  I  was  afraid 
to  see  how  near  to  seven  o'clock  it  might  be.  The 
sweat  was  dropping  from  my  nose,  so  close  was  I 
running  to  the  limit  of  my  time. 

*  Suddenly  there  was  a  lurch,  and  I  dove  forward, 
ramming  my  head  into  the  front  of  the  cab,  coming 
up  with  a  rebound  that  landed  me  across  the  small  of 
my  back  on  the  seat,  and  sent  half  of  my  pail  of  eggs 
helter-skelter  over  the  floor. 

.  'We  had  stopped.  Here  was  Agassiz's  house;  and 
without  taking  time  to  pick  up  the  scattered  eggs,  I 
tumbled  out,  and  pounded  at  the  door. 

'No  one  was  astir  in  the  house.  But  I  would  stir 
them.  And  I  did.  Right  in  the  midst  of  the  racket 
the  door  opened.  It  was  the  maid. 

'"Agassiz,"  I  gasped,  "I  want  Professor  Agassiz, 
quick!"  And  I  pushed  by  her  into  the  hall. 

'"Go  'way,  sir.  I'll  call  the  police.  Professor  Agas 
siz  is  in  bed.  Go  'way,  sir!" 

"'Call  him  —  Agassiz  —  instantly,  or  I'll  call  him 
myself." 

'But  I  did  n't;  for  just  then  a  door  overhead  was 
flung  open,  a  great,  white-robed  figure  appeared  on  the 
dim  landing  above,  and  a  quick,  loud  voice  called  ex 
citedly,  — 

[   43   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

1  "Let  him  in!  Let  him  in.  I  know  him.  He  has  my 
turtle  eggs!" 

'And  the  apparition,  slipperless,  and  clad  in  any 
thing  but  an  academic  gown,  came  sailing  down  the 
stairs. 

'The  maid  fled.  The  great  man,  his  arms  extended, 
laid  hold  of  me  with  both  hands,  and  dragging  me  and 
my  precious  pail  into  his  study,  with  a  swift,  clean 
stroke  laid  open  one  of  the  eggs,  as  the  watch  in  my 
trembling  hands  ticked  its  way  to  seven  —  as  if  noth 
ing  unusual  were  happening  to  the  history  of  the 
world/ 

'You  were  in  time  then?'  I  said. 
'To  the  tick.   There  stands  my  copy  of  the  great 
book.  I  am  proud  of  the  humble  part  I  had  in  it.' 


A  Father  to  his  Freshman  Son  -7 

By  Edward  Sanford  Martin 

No  doubt,  my  son,  you  have  got  out  of  me  already 
what  there  was  to  help  or  mar  you.  You  are  eigh 
teen  years  old  and  have  been  getting  it,  more  or  less 
and  off  and  on,  for  at  least  seventeen  of  those  years.  I 
regret  the  imperfections  of  the  source.  No  doubt  you 
have  recognized  them.  To  have  a  father  who  is  atten 
tive  to  the  world,  indulgent  to  the  flesh,  and  with  a 
sort  of  kindness  for  the  Devil  —  dear  son,  it  is  a  good 
deal  of  a  handicap!  Be  sure  I  make  allowances  for 
you  because  of  it.  Ex  eo  fonte  — Jons,  masculine,  as 
I  remember;  fons  and  mons  and  pons,  and  one  other. 
Should  the  pronoun  be  illo?  As  you  know,  I  never  was 
an  accurate  scholar,  and  I  suppose  you  're  not  —  Ex  eo 
fonte  the  stream  is  bound  to  run  not  quite  clear. 

My  advice  to  you  is  quite  likely  to  be  bad,  partly 
from  the  imperfection  of  its  source,  partly  because  I 
am  not  you,  and  partly  because  of  my  imperfect  ac 
quaintance  with  the  conditions  you  are  about  to  meet. 
When  I  came  to  college  my  father  gave  me  no  advice. 
He  gave  me  his  love  and  some  necessary  money,  which 

I  45   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

did  not  come,  I  fear,  as  easy  as  the  love.  His  venerable 
uncle  who  lived  with  us  —  my  great  uncle  —  gave  me 
his  blessing  and  told  me,  I  remember,  that  so  far  as 
book-learning  went,  I  could  learn  as  much  without 
going  to  college.  Still  he  did  not  discourage  my  going. 
He  was  quite  right.  I  could  have  got  more  book-learn 
ing  out  of  college  than  I  did  get  in  college,  and  I  sup 
pose  that  you,  too,  might  get,  out,  more  than  you  will 
get,  in.  Of  course,  that's  not  the  whole  story;  neither 
is  it  true  of  all  people.  For  me,  college  abounded  in 
distractions,  and  I  suppose  it  will  for  you.  And  I  was 
incorrigibly  sociable  and  ready  to  spend  time  to  get 
acquainted,  and  more,  to  stay  acquainted,  and  if  you 
have  that  propensity  you  need  n't  think  it  was  left  on 
the  doorstep.  You  come  by  it  lawfully.  Getting  ac 
quainted  is,  for  most  of  us,  one  of  the  important 
branches.  But  it's  only  one  of  them,  and  to  devote 
one's  whole  time  to  it  is  a  mistake,  and  one  that  the 
dean  will  help  you  avoid  if  necessary,  which  probably, 
if  I  know  you  at  all,  it  won't  be. 

It  is  important  to  know  people,  but  it  is  more  im 
portant  to  be  worth  knowing.  College  offers  you  at 
least  two  valuable  details  of  opportunity:  a  large 
variety  of  people  to  know,  and  a  large  variety  of 
means  to  make  yourself  better  worth  knowing.  I 
hope,  my  son,  that  you  will  avail  yourself  of  both 
these  details. 

This  is  a  mechanical  age,  and  the  most  obtrusive  of 

[  46 1 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  FRESHMAN  SON 

the  current  mechanisms  is  the  automobile.  It  has 
valves  and  cylinders  and  those  things  that  give  it 
power  and  speed,  and  rubber  tires  that  it  runs  on,  and 
a  wheel  and  steering-gear  and  handles  and  treadles 
by  which  it  is  directed.  Your  body,  especially  your 
stomach,  is  the  rubber  tires;  your  brains  are  the  cylin 
ders  and  valves;  and  your  will  and  the  spiritual  part 
of  you  are  the  chauffeur  and  his  wheel. 

I  beg  you  to  be  kind  to  your  stomach,  as  heretofore. 
It  needs  no  alcohol  at  your  time  of  life  —  if  ever  —  and 
the  less  you  find  occasion  to  feed  into  it,  the  more 
prosperous  both  your  physical  and  mental  conditions 
are  likely  to  be.  I  am  aware  that  life,  and  college  life 
in  particular,  has  its  convivial  intervals;  but  you 
might  as  well  understand  (and  I  have  been  remiss,  or 
have  wasted  time,  if  you  do  not  understand  it  already) 
that  alcohol  is  one  of  the  chief  man-traps,  abounding 
in  mischiefs  if  you  play  with  it  too  hard.  Be  wary, 
always  wary,  with  it,  my  son,  and  especially  with 
hard  liquor. 

Your  mind,  like  your  body,  is  a  thing  whereof  the 
powers  are  developed  by  effort.  That  is  a  principal 
use,  as  I  see  it,  of  hard  work  in  studies.  Unless  you 
train  your  body  you  can't  be  an  athlete,  and  unless 
you  train  your  mind  you  can't  be  much  of  a  scholar. 
The  four  miles  an  oarsman  covers  at  top  speed  is  in 
itself  nothing  to  the  good,  but  the  physical  capacity  to 
hold  out  over  the  course  is  thought  to  be  of  some 

[   47   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

worth.  So  a  good  part  of  what  you  learn  by  hard 
study  may  not  be  permanently  retained,  and  may  not 
seem  to  be  of  much  final  value,  but  your  mind  is  a 
better  and  more  powerful  instrument  because  you 
have  learned  it.  '  Knowledge  is  power/  but  still  more 
the  faculty  of  acquiring  and  using  knowledge  is  power. 
If  you  have  a  trained  and  powerful  mind,  you  are 
bound  to  have  stored  it  with  something,  but  its  value 
is  more  in  what  it  can  do,  what  it  can  grasp  and  use, 
than  in  what  it  contains;  and  if  it  were  possible,  as  it 
is  not,  to  come  out  of  college  with  a  trained  and  disci 
plined  mind  and  nothing  useful  in  it,  you  would  still 
be  ahead,  and  still,  in  a  manner,  educated.  Think  of 
your  mind  as  a  muscle  to  be  developed;  think  of  it  as 
a  searchlight  that  is  to  reveal  the  truth  to  you,  and 
don't  cheat  it  or  neglect  it. 

As  to  competitive  scholarship,  to  my  mind  it  is  like 
competitive  athletics,  —  good  for  those  who  have  the 
powers  and  like  the  game.  Tests  are  useful;  they  stim 
ulate  one's  ambition,  and  so  do  competitions.  But  a 
success  in  competitive  scholarship,  like  a  success  in 
competitive  athletics,  may,  of  course,  be  too  dearly 
bought.  Not  by  you,  though,  I  surmise,  my  son.  If 
you  were  more  urgent,  either  as  a  scholar  or  as  an 
athlete,  I  might  think  it  needful  to  warn  you  not  to 
wear  your  tires  out  scorching  too  early  in  life/  As 
things  are,  I  say  to  you,  as  I  often  say  to  myself: 
Don't  dawdle;  don't  scramble.  When  you  work,  work; 

1 48 1 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  FRESHMAN  SON 

when  you  play,  play;  when  you  rest,  rest;  and  think 
all  the  time. 

When  you  get  hold  of  an  instructor  who  is  worth 
attention,  give  him  attention.  That  is  one  way  of  get 
ting  the  best  that  a  college  has  to  offer.  A  great  deal 
you  may  get  from  books,  but  some  of  the  most  valu 
able  things  are  passed  from  mind  to  mind,  and  can 
only  be  had  from  some  one  who  has  them,  or  else  from 
the  great  Source  of  all  truth.  I  suspect  that  the  subtle 
development  we  call  ' culture'  is  one  of  those  things, 
and  the  great  spiritual  valuables  are  apt  to  come  that 
way. 

You  know  you  are  still  growing,  both  in  mind  and 
body,  and  will  continue  so  to  be  for  years  to  come,  - 
I  hope,  always.  One  of  the  valuable  things  about 
college  is  that  it  gives  you  time  to  grow.  You  won't 
have  to  earn  any  money  and  will  have  time  to  think 
and  get  acquainted  with  yourself  and  others,  as  well 
as  with  some  of  the  wisdom  that  is  spread  upon  the 
records.  You  would  be  so  engaged,  more  or  less,  in  these 
years,  wherever  you  might  be.  But  in  college,  where 
you  are  so  much  your  own  man,  and  are  freed  from 
the  demands  and  solicitudes  of  your  parents,  the  con 
ditions  for  it  are  exceptionally  favorable.  I  suppose 
that  is  one  thing  that  continues  the  colleges  in  busi 
ness,  since  I  read  so  often  that  at  present  they  are 
entirely  misdirected  and  teach  the  wrong  things  in  the 
wrong  way. 

[    49   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

But  nobody  denies  that  they  give  the  young  a 
breathing  spell.  Breathe,  my  son;  breathe  freely.  Re 
member  that  the  aim  of  all  these  prospective  processes 
is  to  bring  out  the  man  there  is  in  you,  and  arm  him 
more  or  less  for  the  jousts  ahead.  It  is  not  to  make  you 
over  into  somebody  else:  that  can't  be  done,  —  not  in 
three  or  four  years,  anyhow;  but  only  to  bring  out, 
and  train  as  much  as  possible  of  you.  There's  plenty 
in  most  of  us  if  we  can  only  get  it  out;  more,  very  much 
more,  than  we  ever  do  get  out.  So  will  you  please 
think  of  college  as  a  nursery  in  which  you  are  to  grow 
a  while,  —  and  mind  you  do  grow,  —  and  then,  pres 
ently,  to  be  transplanted.  It  is  not  as  if  college  was 
the  chief  arena  of  human  effort.  Nevertheless,  for  your 
effort,  while  you  are  there,  it  is  the  chief  arena,  and  I 
am  far  from  giving  you  the  counsel  to  put  off  trying 
until  you  leave. 

I  hear  a  good  deal  about  clubs  and  societies:  how 
many  there  are,  how  important  they  are;  how  it  is 
that,  if  a  youth  shall  gain  the  whole  of  scholarship 
and  all  athletics  and  not  'make'  a  proper  club,  he  shall 
still  fall  something  short  of  success  in  college.  Parents 
I  meet  who  are  more  concerned  about  clubs  than 
about  either  scholarship  or  deportment.  They  are  con 
cerned  and  at  the  same  time  bothered :  so  many  strat 
egies  and  chances  the  clubs  involve;  so  bad  it  may  be 
to  be  in  this  one;  so  bad  to  be  out  of  that;  so  much 
choice  there  is  between  them,  and  so  much  choice 

I    So  ] 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  FRESHMAN  SON 

exercised  within  them,  by  which  any  mother's  hopeful 
may  be  excluded. 

There  is  a  democratic  ideal  of  a  great  college  without 
any  clubs,  where  the  lion  and  the  lamb  shall  escort  one 
another  about  with  tails  entwined,  and  every  student 
shall  be  like  every  other  student,  and  have  similar 
habits  and  associates.  This  ideal  is  a  good  deal  dis 
cussed  and  a  good  deal  applauded  in  the  public  press. 
Whether  it  will  ever  come  true  I  can't  tell,  but  there 
has  been  some  form  or  other  of  clubs  in  our  older 
colleges,  I  suppose,  for  one  or  two  centuries,  and  they 
are  there  now  and  will  at  least  last  out  your  time;  so 
it  may  be  you  will  have  to  take  thought  about  them 
in  due  time. 

Not  much,  however,  until  they  take  thought  of  you. 

You  see,  clubs  seem  to  be  a  sort  of  natural  pro  vision, 
just  as  tails  were,  maybe,  before  humanity  outgrew 
them.  I  guess  there  is  a  propensity  of  nature  toward 
groups,  and  the  natural  basis  of  grouping  seems  to  be 
likeness  in  feathers  and  habits.  The  propensity  works 
to  include  the  like  and,  incidentally  but  necessarily,  to 
exclude  the  unlike.  Whether  it  is  the  Knights  of  the 
Round  Table  or  the  Knights  of  the  Garter  or  the  Phi 
Beta  Kappa,  you  see  these  principles  working.  The 
measure  of  success  in  a  club  is  its  ability  to  make 
people  want  to  join  it,  and  that  seems  to  be  best  dem 
onstrated  and  preserved  by  keeping  most  of  them  out. 

Now  the  advantages  of  the  clubs  are  considerable. 

I   Si   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

To  have  a  place  always  open  where  you  can  hang  up 
your  hat,  and  where  a  hospitable  welcome  always 
awaits  you,  and  where  there  is  enough  of  a  crowd  and 
not  too  much,  and  where  you  can  in  your  later  years 
inspect  at  all  times  a  family  of  selected  undergraduates, 
—  all  that  is  valuable  and  good,  and  pleasant  besides, 
and  this  continuity  of  interest  that  the  clubs  foster 
among  their  members  helps  to  keep  up  in  those  mem 
bers  a  lively  and  helpful  interest  in  their  college.  The 
drawback  to  the  clubs  is  their  essential  selfishness,  and 
their  disposition  to  take  you  out  of  a  large  family  and 
limit  you  to  a  small  one,  and  one  that  is  not  yours  by 
birth,  or  entirely  by  choice,  but  is  selected  for  you 
largely  by  other  persons. 

In  any  club  you  yield  a  certain  amount  of  freedom 
and  individuality,  the  amount  being  determined  by 
the  degree  in  which  the  club  absorbs  you.  Don't 
yield  too  much!  Don't  take  the  mould  of  any  club! 
A  college  is  always  bigger  than  its  clubs,  and  the  big 
gest  thing  in  a  college  is  always  a  man.  The  object  of 
being  in  college  is  to  develop  as  a  man.  If  clubs  help 
in  that  development,  —  and  I  think  they  do  help  some 
men,  —  they  are  a  gain;  but,  of  course,  if  they  dwarf 
you  down  to  the  dimensions  of  a  club-man,  they  are 
a  loss.  Some  men  take  their  club  shape,  such  as  it  is, 
and  find  a  sufficient  satisfaction  in  it.  Others  react 
on  their  clubs,  take  what  they  have  to  give,  add  to  it 
what  is  to  be  had  elsewhere,  and  turn  out  rather  more 

[  52  i 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  FRESHMAN  SON 

valuable  people  than  if  they  had  had  no  club  experi 
ence. 

At  all  events,  don't  take  this  matter  of  the  clubs  too 
hard.  For  those  youths,  comparatively  few,  who  by 
luck  and  circumstances  find  themselves  eligible  to 
them,  they  are  an  interesting  form  of  discipline  or 
indulgence,  and  I  will  not  say  that  they  are  unim 
portant.  Neither  would  I  have  you  keep  out  of  them 
because  of  their  drawbacks.  If  you  begin  by  keeping 
out  of  all  things  that  have  drawbacks,  your  progress 
in  this  world  will  involve  constant  hesitations.  Alco 
hol  has  numerous  drawbacks,  but  I  don't  advise  you 
to  be  a  teetotaller.  Tobacco  has  drawbacks,  but  I 
believe  you  smoke  it.  Money  has  drawbacks,  and  so 
has  advertisement.  But,  bless  you,  we  have  to  take 
things  as  they  come  and  deal  with  them  as  we  can. 
The  trick  is  to  get  the  kernel  and  eliminate  the  shuck. 
A  large  proportion  of  people  do  the  opposite.  If  you 
can  manage  that  way  with  the  clubs,  —  provided  you 
ever  get  a  chance,  —  you  will  be  amused  to  observe 
in  due  time  how  large  a  proportion  of  your  brethren 
value  these  organizations  chiefly  for  their  shuck,  and 
grasp  most  eagerly  at  that.  For  the  shuck,  as  I  see  it, 
is  exclusiveness,  which  is  not  valuable  except  to  per 
sons  justly  doubtful  of  their  own  merits.  Whereas  the 
kernel  is  the  fellowship  of  like  minds  which  has  always 
been  treasured  by  the  wise. 

The  clubs,  my  son,  some  more  than  others,  are  re- 

[    S3    1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

cruited  considerably  from  what  is  known  as  the  leisure 
class.  To  be  sure,  I  don't  see  any  very  definite  or 
important  leisure  class  about  in  our  land.  Everybody 
who  amounts  to  anything  works,  and  always  did  and 
must,  for  you  can't  amount  to  anything  otherwise; 
but  the  people  who  have  money  laid  up  ahead  for 
them,  are  apt  to  work  somewhat  less  strenuously  than 
the  rest  of  us,  and  not  so  much  for  money.  Don't  get 
it  into  your  head  that  you  want  to  tie  up  to  the  leisure 
class,  or  that  the  condition  of  not  having  to  work  is 
desirable.  Have  it  in  mind  that  you  are  to  work  just 
about  as  hard  as  the  quality  of  your  tires  and  cylinders 
will  warrant.  Plan  to  get  into  the  game  if  you  have 
to  go  on  your  hands  and  knees.  Plan  to  earn  your 
living  somehow.  Don't  aim  to  go  through  life  spoon 
fed;  don't  aim  to  get  a  soft  seat.  If  you  do,  you  won't  . 
have  your  fair  share  of  fun.  There  is  no  real  fun  in 
ease,  except  as  you  need  it  because  you  have  worked 
hard. 

I  say,  plan  to  earn  your  living!  Whether  you  act 
ually  earn  the  money  you  live  on,  makes  no  great 
difference,  though  in  your  case  I  guess  you  '11  have  to 
if  you  are  going  to  live  at  all  well.  But  if  you  get 
money  without  earning  it,  it  leaves  you  in  debt  to  so 
ciety.  Somebody  has  to  earn  the  money  you  spend.  In 
mine,  factory,  railroad,  or  office,  somebody  works  for 
the  money  that  supports  you.  No  matter  where  the 
money  comes  from,  that  is  true:  somebody  has  to  earn 

[   54   1 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  FRESHMAN  SON 

it.  If  you  get  it  without  due  labor  of  your  own,  you 
owe  for  it.  Recognize  that  debt  and  qualify  yourself 
to  discharge  it.  Study  to  put  back  into  the  world 
somewhat  more  than  you  take  out  of  it.  Study  to  be 
somewhat  more  than  merely  worth  your  keep.  Study 
to  shoulder  the  biggest  load  your  strength  can  carry. 
That  is  life.  That  is  the  great  sport  that  brings  the 
great  compensations  to  the  soul.  Getting  regular  meals 
and  nice  clothes,  and  acceptable  shelter  and  transpor 
tation,  and  agreeable  acquaintances,  is  only  a  means 
to  an  end,  and  if  you  accept  the  means  and  shirk  the 
end,  the  means  will  pall  on  you. 

I  said  'agreeable  acquaintances.'  A  very  large  pro 
portion  of  the  acquaintances  you  can  make  will  be 
agreeable  if  you  can  bring  enough  knowledge  and  a 
sufficiently  hospitable  spirit  to  your  relations  with 
them.  I  don't  counsel  you  to  cultivate  the  arts  of  pop 
ularity,  for  they  are  apt  not  to  wash,  —  apt,  that  is,  to 
conflict  with  inside  qualities  that  are  vastly  more  val 
uable  than  they  are.  But  keep,  in  so  far  as  you  can,  an 
open  heart.  There  is  no  one  to  whom  you  are  not  re 
lated  if  only  you  can  find  the  relation;  there  is  no  one 
but  you  owe  him  a  benefit  if  you  can  see  one  you  can 
do  him. 

Don't  be  too  nice.  It  is  such  an  impediment  to 
usefulness  as  stuttering  is  to  speech,  —  a  sort  of  spirit 
ual  indigestion;  a  hesitation  in  your  carbureter.  By 
all  means,  be  a  gentleman,  in  manners  and  spirit,  in 

[   55   ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

so  far  as  you  know  how,  but  be  one  from  the  inside 
out. 

If  you  had  come  as  far  as  you  have  in  life  without 
acquiring  manners,  you  might  well  blush  for  your 
parents  and  teachers.  I  don't  think  you  have,  but  I 
beg  you  hold  on  to  all  the  good  manners  you  have, 
and  get  more.  Good  manners  seem  to  me  a  good  deal 
to  seek  among  present-day  youth,  but  I  suppose  they 
have  always  been  fairly  scarce,  and  the  more  appre 
ciated  for  their  scarcity.  Tobacco  manners  are  un 
commonly  free  and  bad  in  this  generation;  more  so,  I 
think,  than  they  were  in  mine.  Since  cigarettes  came 
in,  especially,  youths  seem  to  feel  licensed  to  smoke 
them  in  all  places  and  company.  And  the  boys  are 
prone  to  too  much  ease  of  attitude,  and  lounge  and 
loll  appallingly  in  company,  and  I  see  them  in  parlors 
with  their  legs  crossed  in  such  a  fashion  that  their  feet 
might  almost  as  well  be  in  the  ladies'  laps. 

Have  a  care  for  these  matters  of  deportment.  Be 
strict  with  yourself  and  your  postures.  Keep  your  legs 
and  feet  where  they  belong;  they  were  not  meant  for 
parlor  ornaments.  Show  respect  for  people !  Lord  bless 
me!  the  things  I  see  done  by  males  with  a  claim  to 
be  gentlemen:  tobacco-smoke  puffed  in  women's  faces; 
men  who  ought  to  know  better,  smoking  as  they  drive 
out  with  ladies;  men  who  put  their  feet  on  the  table 
and  expect  you  to  talk  over  them!  Show  respect  for 
people;  for  all  kinds  of  people,  including  yourself,  for 

1 56 1 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  FRESHMAN  SON 

self -respect  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  good  manners.  They 
are  the  expression  of  discipline,  of  good- will,  of  respect 
for  other  people's  rights  and  comfort  and  feelings.  I 
suppose  good  manners  are  unselfish,  but  the  most 
selfish  people  might  well  cultivate  them,  they  are  so 
remunerative.  In  the  details  of  life,  in  the  public  vehi 
cles,  in  crowds,  and  in  all  situations  where  the  demand 
presses  hard  on  supply,  what  you  get  by  hogging 
is  incomparably  less  than  what  you  get  by  courtesy. 
The  things  you  must  scramble  and  elbow  for  are  not 
worth  having;  not  one  of  them.  They  are  the  swill  of 
life,  my  son;  leave  them  to  swine. 

You  will  have  to  think  more  or  less  about  yourself, 
because  that  belongs  to  your  time  of  life,  provided  you 
are  the  sort  that  thinks  at  all.  But  don't  overdo  it. 
You  won't,  because  you  will  find  it,  as  all  healthy 
people  do,  a  subject  in  which  over-indulgence  tends 
rapidly  to  nausea.  To  have  one's  self  always  on  one's 
mind  is  to  lodge  a  kill-joy;  to  act  always  from  calcula 
tion  is  a  sure  path  to  blunders. 

Most  of  these  specific  counsels  I  set  down  more  for 
your  entertainment  than  truly  to  guide  you.  You 
don't  live  by  maxims  any  more  than  you  speak  by 
rules  of  grammar.  You  will  speak  by  ear  (improving, 
I  hope,  in  your  college  environment),  and  you  will 
live  by  whatever  light  there  is  in  you,  getting  more,  I 
hope,  as  you  go  along. 

Grow  in  grace,  my  son!  If  your  spirit  is  right,  the 

[   57   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

details  of  life  will  take  care  of  their  own  adjustment. 
Go  to  church;  if  not  invariably,  then  variably.  They 
don't  require  it  any  more  in  college,  but  you  can't 
afford  not  to;  for  the  churches  reflect  and  recall  — 
very  imperfectly,  to  be  sure  —  the  religion  and  the 
spirit  of  Christ;  and  on  that  the  whole  of  our  civiliza 
tion  rests.  Get  understanding  of  that.  It  is  by  far  the 
most  important  knowledge  in  the  whole  book,  the 
great  fountain  of  sanity,  tolerance,  and  political  and 
social  wisdom,  a  gateway  to  all  kinds  of  truth,  a  recti 
fying  and  consoling  current  through  all  of  life. 


Intensive  Living 

By  Cornelia  A.  P.  Comer 

SAID  Honoria  casually,  — 

1  When  I  was  in  town  yesterday,  I  went  to  see  Ade 
laide  in  her  new  house/ 

The  others  looked  up  alertly,  Martha  from  her 
darning,  Grace  from  her  Irish  crochet. 

'Oh,  really?  And  how  did  you  like  the  house?' 

Honoria  hesitated,  looking  to  the  wide  view  for 
clarification.  The  three  sat  on  a  cottage  veranda  in 
the  foothills  of  Southern  California,  one  February  day. 
In  front  of  them  the  landscape  ran,  laughing,  down-hill 
to  the  sea.  Spread  beneath  them  like  a  map  were 
thirty  miles  of  town  and  country:  orange  orchards 
brave  with  fruit;  eucalyptus  groves  appealing  to  the 
sky;  friendly  roofs  inclosed  in  deep-sheltering  trees; 
great  open  spaces  where  the  wind  moved  free;  round- 
topped  hills,  green  near  at  hand  (for  the  rains  had 
come  and  gone  thus  early),  changing  to  a  dusky  blue 
out  yonder  where  the  bright  Pacific  flashed  at  the  end 
of  the  long,  delightful  view.  For  love  of  this  prospect 
Martha  had  lately  left  steep,  sturdy  hills,  brown 

[   59   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

brooks,  elm-shaded  streets  and  old  friends,  girding  at 
herself  as  she  did  so.  Honoria  had  lived  here  many 
years,  while  Grace  was  but  a  winter's  guest  in  Ho- 
noria's  home,  whose  hospitable  brown  gables,  low  and 
wide-spreading,  were  visible  beyond  the  cypress  hedge 
encircling  Martha's  cottage. 

'  It  is  a  good-looking  mansion.  She  had  a  capable 
architect.  The  building  is  Tudor,  —  consistent,  grace 
ful,  well  proportioned.  For  two  people  it  is  a  very 
large  house  indeed,  but  it  is  a  good  house,  and  I  see 
perfectly  how  Adelaide  means  it  to  express  the  idea 
of  dignified,  comfortable  living.  The  decorator  was  not 
bad  of  his  kind,  either.' 

1  All  this  sounds  like  praise/  said  Grace,  'yet  I  feel 
that  you  are  keeping  something  back.  What  is  the 
matter  with  Adelaide's  house? ' 

Again  Honoria  hesitated. 

'It  seems  ungracious  to  find  fault  with  such  a  per 
fectly  worthy  performance,  yet  I  came  away  chilled 
and  uncomfortable,  almost  unhappy,  indeed.  Thinking 
about  the  matter  on  the  way  home,  it  became  clear  to 
me  at  last  that  the  house  is  too  large  for  Adelaide's 
personality.  You  know  how  perfectly  she  pervaded 
that  old  house  of  hers.  Old-fashioned,  in  some  respects 
inconvenient,  with  far  less  perfect  fittings,  it  still  was 
thoroughly  delightful,  for  where  the  rugs  failed  or  the 
draperies  faltered,  Adelaide's  personality  somehow 
stepped  in  and  eked  out  all  insufficiencies,  corrected 


INTENSIVE  LIVING 

all  errors.  It  was  hers  entirely.  In  this  blameless 
achievement  of  architect  and  decorator,  there  are  no 
insufficiencies  to  be  eked  out,  and  so  Adelaide's  per 
sonality  seems  to  slip  and  slide  helplessly  upon  a  kind 
of  glacial  surface  which  it  cannot  penetrate  and  make 
its  own.  I  may  be  expressing  myself  very  poorly,  but 
I  know  I  have  hold  of  something  real.  Adelaide's  new 
house,  good-looking  as  it  is,  is  not  interesting,  —  that 
is  what  I  mean,  —  and  even  the  dear  woman  herself 
seems  less  interesting,  and  less  herself  now  that  she 
is  enfolded  in  it.' 

'Did  you  know,'  interposed  Martha,  'that  the  first 
winter  in  a  new  house  the  heating  actually  requires 
more  coal  than  is  ever  needed  again? ' 

'No,  I  did  n't  know  that  —  but  I  can  well  believe  it. 
Why  should  n't  it  take  more  coal  to  warm  it  when  it 
evidently  takes  more  vitality  to  cheer  it?  It 's  a  serious 
business,  this  breaking  in  of  a  large  house  to  one's  self 
late  in  life,  as  so  many  Americans  do.  The  draughts 
upon  their  vital  forces  are  more  taxing  than  the  coal 
bills.' 

'We  all  ought  to  live  in  inherited  homesteads/ 
suggested  Grace,  'where  the  humanizing  of  the  bricks 
and  mortar  has  been  done  for  us  by  our  own  people.' 

'Honoria,'  Martha  demanded,  ignoring  this  unprac 
tical  suggestion,  'tell  me  the  truth!  If  you  were  in 
Adelaide's  place  and  had  carte  blanche  to  incarnate 
your  idea  of  a  house  for  yourself  and  your  family, 
I  61  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

would  n't  you  over-build  and  over-decorate  too?  I 
should  enjoy  doing  it!  The  furniture  in  my  bungalow 
is  altogether  too  sketchy  at  present,  and  I  am  tired  of 
eking  it  out  with  personality.  You  would  feel  differ 
ently  if  you  had  n't  brought  your  old  mahogany  when 
you  came  West!' 

Honoria  set  a  few  stitches,  and  looked  at  her  friends 
with  eyes  in  which  conviction  flamed. 

'I  don't  over-dress,  and  I  don't  over-eat,  though  I 
have  abundant  opportunity/  she  said,  'but  it  may 
be  that  I  would  over-build  and  over-decorate,  or  at 
least  that  I  would  have  done  so  until  yesterday.  I 
don't  think  I  would  do  it  to-day  —  now  that  I  know 
what  ails  Adelaide's  house.  As  for  your  bungalow, 
Martha,  it  is  comfortable  and  it  is  alive.  There  is  n't 
a  picture  on  the  wall  nor  an  ornament  on  the  mantel 
that  has  n't  a  reason  for  being  exactly  where  it  is. 
That  is  triumph,  and  you  know  it.  I  don't  believe  you 
would  really  exchange  your  house  for  Adelaide's.' 

'Try  me  and  see!  I  would  like  just  for  once  to 
ignore  beauty  and  suitability,  and  go  in  for  size  and 
sheer,  luxurious  comfort.' 

'You  would  go  distracted  in  two  weeks  in  a  place 
that  was  "sheer,  luxurious  comfort"  and  nothing  else/ 
returned  Honoria  decidedly.  'You  would  hate  it  as 
you  hate  everything  smug  and  fat  and  complacent. 
I  have  known  you  too  long,  Martha,  not  to  know  the 
ways  of  you  with  a  house.  To  satisfy  you,  a  domicile 


INTENSIVE  LIVING 

has  to  be  livable.  If  you  consider  all  the  houses,  little 
and  big,  of  your  friends,  you  will  see  that  there  are 
fixed  limits  to  the  amount  of  space  in  them  that  is 
truly  and  pleasantly  habitable.  You  can't  get  the 
lovable  "lived-in  look"  in  rooms  where  you  do  not 
actually  live,  and  you  can't  live  all  over  a  house  that 
is  bigger  than  your  needs.  Why !  life  is  n't  long  enough, 
especially  if  you  seldom  stay  at  home!  Think  how 
dreary  are  most  of  the  great  houses  we  know.  Con 
sider  Mrs.  King's  new  marble  palace  with  its  com 
manding  site  and  its  ninety  rooms.  There  isn't  a 
single  spot  in  it  except  her  own  bed-room  and  sitting- 
room  that  would  n't  give  your  spirit  a  congestive  chill 
if  you  sat  there  for  an  hour.  I  know  a  woman  in  Col 
orado  who  so  loathed  her  big  new  house  as  it  left 
the  hands  of  a  New  York  decorator,  that  she  would 
have  moved  back  into  the  old  one  if  she  had  n't  been 
afraid  of  her  friends'  laughter.  And,  Grace,  even 
inherited  homesteads  are  sometimes  as  difficult  as 
uncongenial  kin.  Old  houses  have  ways  and  wills  of 
their  own/ 

' Houses  are  curious  things,'  said  Grace.  'We  take 
a  morsel  of  illimitable  space  and  wall  it  in  and  roof  it 
over.  Suddenly  it  ceases  to  be  part  of  God's  out-of- 
doors  and  becomes  an  entity  with  an  atmosphere  of  its 
own.  We  warm  it  with  our  fires,  we  animate  it  with 
our  affections,  we  furnish  it  with  such  things  as  seem 
good  in  our  eyes.  We  do  this  to  get  shelter  for  our 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

bodies,  but  we  acquire  as  well  an  instrument  for  our 
spirits  that  reacts  on  us  in  its  turn.' 

'In  other  words/  returned  Honoria,  warming  to  her 
subject,  'as  we  live  our  way  into  a  house,  adapting  it 
to  our  need,  the  bricks  and  mortar,  the  paint  and 
plaster,  cease  to  be  inert  matter  and  become  alive. 
Superficial  sociologists  have  taunted  woman  with  be 
ing  "more  anabolic  or  plant-like"  than  man,  but  I 
count  it  her  second  glory.  The  plant  is  an  organism 
that "  slowly  turns  lifeless  into  living  matter,"  and  this 
is  the  thing  that  woman  has  done  from  the  beginning 
with  her  shelter!  In  our  houses  we  achieve  almost  an 
organic  extension  of  our  very  selves.  That  is  part  of 
what  I  was  trying  to  say.  But,  obviously,  there  should 
exist  some  reasonable  ratio  between  the  self  and  its 
extensions.  I  take  it,  the  modern  multitude  of  over 
grown  mansions,  like  the  Kings'  or  the  Clays'  or  even 
Adelaide's  smaller  dwelling,  —  all  these  places  whose 
owners  never  find  out  why  they  are  not  at  home  in 
them,  —  are  symptoms  of  our  modem  disease  of  ma 
terialism.  The  essence  of  that  disease  is  the  desire  to 
grasp  more  matter  than  the  spirit  can  fully  animate. 
That  the  infection  can  lay  hold  on  Adelaide  shows  how 
all-pervading  it  is,  gripping  the  just  as  well  as  the 
unjust.  When  I  saw  her  tired  and  dissatisfied ;  when  I 
felt  the  lack  of  charm  and  quality  in  the  house,  and  re 
membered  how  full  of  both  her  old  house  and  garden 
had  been,  I  tried  to  think  it  out.  It  all  works  around 


INTENSIVE  LIVING 

to  just  this:  you  can't  have  quality,  you  can't  have 
charm  in  your  material  environment  unless  you  put 
them  into  it  yourself.  It  is  a  plain  question  of  your 
ability  to  choose,  arrange  and  vitalize  things.  And  the 
latter  requisite  is  by  far  the  most  important  of  the 
three.  For  I  have  really  seen,  with  these  eyes,  poor, 
mean  rooms  where  absolutely  nothing  was  beautiful 
or  noteworthy,  so  charged  with  a  gracious  and  com 
forting  personality  that  you  forgot  their  shabbiness 
and  said,  "What  a  home-like  place!"  Please  note  that 
that  is  the  adjective  we  always  use  of  places  that  draw 
us  by  their  personality  —  as  if  personality  and  nothing 
else  were  the  essence  of  home. 

'Now  Adelaide's  old  house  had  personality;  it  was 
completely  vitalized.  It  was  all  under  her  hand,  and 
as  high  as  her  heart.  But  Adelaide's  big  new  house  is 
as  yet  barren  and  chilly,  for  it  is  not  vitalized  at  all. 
Of  course  I  know  that  after  she  has  lived  in  it  longer, 
it  is  bound  to  improve,  because  it  is  her  nature  to 
humanize  and  modify  all  her  surroundings.  But  the 
crucial  question  is  —  how  big  a  house  can  she  human 
ize  ?  Something  bigger  than  a  cottage  probably  —  but 
certainly  something  much  smaller  than  a  hotel.  The 
longer  I  looked  at  this  question,  the  more  it  seemed  to 
me  that  unconsciously  I  had  put  my  finger  on  the  vi 
tal  query  that,  in  the  ideal  state,  should  underlie  all 
property,  all  education,  all  privilege. 

'  I  have  been  talking  about  houses,  —  they  are  the 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

most  intimate,  the  most  organic  of  a  woman's  posses 
sions,  —  but  the  argument  applies  to  all  we  own.  It 
is  the  mark  of  our  era  to  want  more  of  everything  than 
we  can  use,  yet  when  we  get  the  Too-Much  we  demand, 
we  are  crushed  by  it,  as  Tarpeia  was  crushed  by  the 
shields.' 

'I  have  often  thought/  said  Grace,  'that  the  sheer, 
brute  mass  of  life  —  of  people  to  know,  of  books  to 
read,  of  plays  to  hear,  of  pictures  to  see,  of  things  to 
do,  buy,  learn,  enjoy  —  within  reach  of  the  well-to-do 
person  in  the  modern  world,  far  outruns  the  capacity 
of  any  human  being  to  take  it  in  and  make  of  it  the 
sane  whole  that  a  life  should  be/ 

'  Yes  —  yet  we  go  crazily  on,  trying  to  expand  to 
illimitable  possibilities,  thinking  we  shall  be  happier 
so  soon  as  we  have  discarded  all  our  present  belongings 
and  opportunities  for  bigger,  newer,  richer  ones.  How 
many  people  do  you  know  who  have  not  met  a  sub 
stantial  increase  'of  income  with  a  corresponding  en 
largement  of  their  whole  scale  of  living,  a  senseless 
expansion  sometimes  out-running  their  increased  abil 
ity  to  provide  for  it?  There  is  no  future  but  chaos  for 
a  society  with  such  ambitions.  They  are  centrifugal 
and  can  only  lead  to  disintegration. 

'The  truth  is,  we  have  no  notion  of  the  value  and 
necessity  of  a  doctrine  of  limitations.  Just  as  an  illus 
tration  —  not  once  in  all  the  mass  of  matter  printed 
in  the  last  twenty  years  about  the  gyro-car,  the  aero- 
I  66  ] 


INTENSIVE  LIVING 

plane  or  other  inventions  capable  of  enormous  swift 
ness,  have  I  seen  the  faintest  intimation  that  human 
beings  could  not  intelligently  direct  a  speed  of  two 
hundred  miles  an  hour  —  yet  the  railroads  are  now 
tardily  discovering  that  the  capacity  of  engineers  is 
seriously  taxed  by  sixty  miles! 

'  Don't  mistake  my  meaning.  I  am  not  preaching 
the  moral  value  of  poverty.  I  am  no  convert  to  asceti 
cism.  That  method  of  ridding  one's  self  of  the  over 
weight  of  the  material  life  is  too  extreme  to  the  correct 
solution.  I  am  simply  calling  attention  with  all  my 
might  to  the  aesthetic  and  vital  value  of  Not-Too- 
Much.  I  am  not  afraid  of  Enough.  I  am  greatly  afraid 
of  Too-Much.  And  the  reason  I  am  afraid  is  this:  — 

'Just  as  the  capacity  of  the  human  stomach  is 
limited  to  a  certain  quantity  of  food,  so  also  is  limited 
the  capacity  of  the  human  spirit  for  appropriating  and 
assimilating  property  in  its  different  forms.  Beyond 
a  certain  somewhat  variable  point,  material  posses 
sions  do  the  holder  no  more  good.  The  common  saying, 
"  All  you  get  in  this  world  is  your  board  and  clothes," 
is  the  popular  acknowledgment  of  this  restricted  ca 
pacity.  The  affirmation  of  bounds  to  our  capacity 
holds  good  as  regards  the  property  of  the  mind  - 
education,  cultivation,  aesthetic  satisfactions  —  just  as 
it  does  of  material  goods.  There  is  a  definite  limit  to 
what  we  can  effectively  make  our  own.  Beyond  that 
limit,  possession  is  a  detriment. 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

'The  direct  result  of  helping  ourselves  to  too  much 
of  anything  is  to  coarsen  and  degrade.  We  can  see 
this  clearly  as  regards  the  primal  necessity  of  food. 
Nature  promptly  writes  it,  in  large  letters,  all  over  the 
man  or  woman  of  gross  appetites. 

*  It  is  as  plainly  printed,  if  in  smaller  type,  on  the 
faces  of  those  who  want  too  much  of  other  things,  — 
houses,  notoriety,  money,  power,  —  what  you  will. 
The  porcine  brand  is  there,  however  disguised.  Per 
sonally,  I  fear  the  Mark  of  the  Pig  as  I  fear  nothing 
else  on  earth.  Shaler  says  that  certain  lines  of  evolu 
tion  terminate  in  such  grotesque  effects  that  one  almost 
believes  the  guiding  thought  behind  the  process  was 
humorous.  I  never  see  a  stye  with  its  squealing, 
shouldering  inhabitants,  without  thinking  how  tre 
mendously  satiric  it  is  —  a  master-caricature  of  hu 
man  greed,  not  over-drawn!  And  I  say,  " Brother 
Pig,  Heaven  grant  that  I  keep  my  voracities  better 
concealed  than  thou."' 

Her  companions  regarded  Honoria,  in  type  thin, 
nervous,  ardent,  with  a  keen  and  vivid  face.  The  com 
parison  was  certainly  not  apparent  —  but  the  heart 
knoweth  its  own  gluttonies. 

1  You  are  doing  fairly  well  at  it  thus  far/  said  Martha 
dryly.  ' What's  the  next  step  in  your  argument, 
Honoria? ' 

1  Since  our  capacity  is  limited,  and  since  to  glut 
ourselves  beyond  it  burdens  and  degrades,  clearly  the 


INTENSIVE  LIVING 

thing  for  each  individual  with  intelligence  to  do  is  to 
find  out  where,  for  him,  lies  the  golden  point  beyond 
which  riches  turns  to  the  poverty  of  burden.  When 
even  the  wise  and  earnest  Adelaides  get  their  houses 
too  big  and  don't  know  what  is  the  matter,  it  is  time 
to  formulate  the  principles  of  First  Aid  to  the  Pros 
perous.  I  believe  the  point  from  which  the  women  of 
the  comfortable  classes  should  attack  the  problem  of 
a  saner  living  is  this  doctrine  of  limitation  and  selec 
tion,  and  that  we  should  attack  it  first  of  all  in  our 
homes. 

'Now,  we  human  beings  really  do  something  to  our 
immediate  material  surroundings  which  I  can  best  de 
scribe  as  charging  them  with  our  personality.  With 
the  revolution  of  the  days,  personality  accumulates  in 
the  things  we  handle  and  love  and  live  with,  much  as 
electricity  gathers  upon  the  accumulator  of  a  static 
machine  with  the  revolution  of  the  plates.  This  idea 
has  always  been  popular  with  the  poets  and  artists, 
but  people  who  advance  it  in  everyday  life  always  do 
so  apologetically,  with  the  air  of  saying,  "I  know  this 
is  slightly  fantastic,  but  does  n't  it  seem  true?"  Yet 
most  housekeepers  know  its  utter  truth.  I  never 
doubted  from  the  time  I  consciously  began  to  care  for 
old  furniture,  old  rugs,  old  china  —  all  the  beautiful 
cast-offs  of  vanished  lives  —  that  a  vast  part  of  their 
charm  was  atmosphere,  something  imparted  to  them 
by  the  affection  of  those  forgotten  ones  and  now  in- 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

hering,  for  the  perceptive  vision,  in  their  very  sub 
stance.  The  craftsman  of  those  elder  days  is  not  the 
only  creator  of  the  beauty  that  has  come  down  to  us. 
Whoever  has  loved  another's  work  has  thereby  added 
something  to  it.  Is  it  not  so?  And  I,  in  my  turn,  ought 
to  be  beautifying  my  belongings  for  those  who  come 
after  me.' 

Grace  and  Martha  nodded  readily  enough,  for  this 
doctrine  needs  no  long  expounding  to  any  woman  who 
has  lived  her  way  into  her  material  possessions,  and 
distilled  atmosphere  from  them  for  the  comfort  of  her 
household.  She  knows  what  she  has  done,  and  knows, 
though  she  says  little  about  it,  that  this  business  of 
turning  lifeless  into  living  things  is  one  of  her  import 
ant  natural  functions. 

'When  I  studied  physics/  Honoria  went  on,  'I 
learned  that  science  had  been  compelled  to  posit  ether, 
an  all-pervading,  absolutely  elastic,  wave-bearing  sub 
stance,  to  explain  the  commonest  facts  of  our  physical 
experience.  Later  yet,  I  learned  that  the  passage  of 
thought-waves  through  ether  had  found  defenders 
among  men  of  the  exact  sciences.  Naturally  I  said  to 
myself,  "Ah,  the  scientists  are  growing  'warm.'  Next, 
they  will  be  demonstrating  some  of  the  things  women 
have  always  known.  They  will  show  how  we  send  out 
vibrations  that  get  caught  and  entangled  in  our  inti 
mate  belongings,  never  to  be  wholly  freed  again.  The 
thing  will  be  worked  out  and  demonstrated  like  a 

[  70 1 


INTENSIVE  LIVING 

problem  in  geometry.  Doubtless  they  will  be  measur 
ing  everybody's  wave-lengths  and  teaching  children 
in  the  Eighth  Grade  easy  ways  of  charging  their 
belongings  with  their  personality  so  unmistakably 
that  stealing  will  have  to  become  a  lost  art."  Well! 
They  have  n't  done  it  yet.  In  fact,  they  don't  seem 
so  near  doing  it  as  they  once  did.  The  mechanism  of 
the  process  by  which  I  take  a  chair  fresh  from  Grand 
Rapids  and  in  the  course  of  years  make  it  my  chair 
and  no  other  woman's,  is  a  secret  still,  but  I  don't 
have  to  argue  with  anybody  who  ever  had  a  favorite 
chair  that  the  thing  is  as  I  have  stated  it.  Neither  do 
I  have  to  argue  that  I  could  not  so  appropriate  and 
make  my  own  the  output  of  an  entire  factory.  It 
must  be  equally  obvious  that  the  dignified,  proper 
environment  for  me  and  my  family  contains  what  we 
can  thus  make  our  own,  and  not  much  more.' 

'Of  course  there  are  people,'  said  Martha  reflec 
tively,  '  the  routine  of  whose  living  demands  large  and 
formal  apartments,  impossible  to  do  anything  with 
from  your  point  of  view.' 

'Assuredly  there  are  such  people,'  Honoria  admit 
ted,  *  just  as  there  are  people  whose  entertaining  must 
be  in  the  line  of  banquets  rather  than  little  dinners. 
I  am  not  predicating  a  world  full  of  model  cottages, 
even  though  I  think  it  might  prove  the  happiest  world. 
Still,  outside  of  official  circles,  the  need  of  state  draw 
ing-rooms  is  certainly  not  general,  and  it  is  of  the  very 

1 71 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

gist  of  my  argument  —  my  argument  isn't  all  de 
veloped  yet,  Martha,  don't  think  it!  —  that  for  the 
sake  of  developing  a  finer  and  more  individual  quality 
in  our  possessions,  we  should  cut  off  some  superfluous 
ones.  Please  listen  patiently  while  I  carry  the  idea  to 
its  logical  limit,  even  though  that  limit  lies  beyond 
the  bounds  of  practicability. 

'Economists  profess  that,  in  an  ideal  distribution 
of  goods,  each  man  would  have  as  much  as  he  could 
consume  without  waste.  But  this  takes  no  account  of 
the  differing  needs  of  men,  developed  through  ages  of 
the  upward  struggle,  nor  of  their  different  capabilities 
of  turning  goods  to  account.  If  you  are  going  to  dab 
ble  at  all  in  theories  of  ideal  distribution,  why  not 
have  one  that  is  genuinely  ideal  —  that  is,  non-mate 
rial?  The  true  distribution  would  require  that  each  man 
should  possess  what  goods  he  could  animate  and  vitalize. 
Even  so,  how  vastly  would  possessions  differ  in  amount 
and  quality! 

'If  life  could  be  adjusted  on  this  basis,  it  would 
automatically  become  simplified,  charged  with  beauty 
and  with  character.  We  should  slough  off  ugly  and 
useless  possessions,  or,  if  we  retained  through  affec 
tion  things  ugly  in  themselves,  that  very  affection 
would  impart  to  them  a  certain  importance  and  dis 
tinction.  We  should  then,  at  least,  live  in  a  world  in 
which  everything  had  significance.  Think  of  the  infi 
nite  satisfaction  of  that!' 

i  72 1 


INTENSIVE  LIVING 

'What  do  you  mean  when  you  say,  "if  life  could  be 
adjusted  on  this  basis,"  Honoria?'  Grace  inquired. 
1  Are  you  implying  some  kind  of  a  final  socialistic  state 
which  calls  for  an  omniscient  Distributor  of  Goods 
who  shall  know  how  much  each  man  can  vitalize? ' 

'  Really,  Grace,  I  am  not  a  fool,  even  when  I  am  evolv 
ing  a  reformed  society!*  returned  Honoria  promptly. 
'Most  conceptions  of  an  improved  state  demand  God 
for  their  Chief  Executive  and  an  enormous  force  of 
government  officials  with  the  fine  honor  which,  thus 
far,  has  only  been  developed  in  human  nature  by  con 
ditions  entirely  different  from  those  the  visionaries  are 
forecasting.  Unquestionably  we  have  fallen  into  the 
habit  of  thinking  that  if  we  only  pass  a  law,  any 
wrong  at  which  we  aim  is  regulated.  In  fact,  however, 
so  long  as  that  law  only  expresses  the  practice  of  a 
minority,  its  enforcement  will  be  evaded.  Legislation 
without  character  is  as  helpless  as  a  motor  without 
fuel,  —  and  my  little  reform,  like  every  other  effective 
change,  must  proceed  from  within  outward. 

'So  I  believe  that  if  I  wish  to  live  in  a  world  where 
nobody  has  more  food,  clothes,  houses,  wealth,  power, 
than  he  can  make  significant  and  vital  use  of,  it  is  up 
to  me  to  remake  my  own  life  on  that  basis  first.  I  am, 
if  not  the  only  woman  whom  I  can  reform,  at  least  the 
most  suitable  subject  for  my  experimentation.  And  I 
admit  that  I  have  too  many  possessions.  Sometimes 
I  am  ridden  to  exhaustion  by  the  care  of  my  "  things," 

[   73   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

modest  as  they  are  when  compared  to  the  goods  of 
my  neighbors.  I  know  that  if  thousands  of  people  did 
not  feel  as  I  do,  the  "simple  life"  slogan  would  never 
have  acquired  the  popularity  it  had  some  years  ago. 
We  no  longer  hear  much  of  the  simple  life,  but  we 
need  it  increasingly.  Personally,  I  am  persuaded  that 
the  method  I  am  trying  to  set  forth  is  workable. 

'Why  should  n't  a  human  being,  seeking  to  get  the 
most  out  of  life,  take  lessons  from  the  husbandman 
seeking  to  get  the  richest  returns  from  the  soil?  It 
used  to  be  thought  that  to  cultivate  many  acres  super 
ficially  was  the  way  to  feed  the  world  and  enrich  the 
farmer.  But  the  study  of  the  soil  as  a  science  has 
taught  us  that  we  must  resort,  instead,  to  the  inten 
sive  farming  which  gives  greater  returns  from  reduced 
acreage.  What  is  true  of  the  returns  earth  makes  to 
our  granaries,  is  true  of  the  returns  life  makes  to  our 
spirits.  We  need  a  science  of  intensive  living  that  we 
may  get  the  larger  crop  from  the  smaller  field.  It  will 
be  worked  out  by  women,  and  it  must  begin  in  their 
domain,  which  still  is,  in  spite  of  the  sociologists,  the 
home.' 

'The  Norwegian  maid  who  cared  for  my  rooms  at 
the  hotel  last  winter  had  figured  out  something  of  the 
sort  for  herself/  said  Grace.  '  After  I  had  put  a  few 
bits  of  things  about,  she  said  to  me,  "I  like  dis  room. 
It  looks  like  Norway.  Dere  iss  more  moneys  in  Amer 
ica,  but  in  Norway  t'ings  iss  more  pretty.  Even  de 

[   74  1 


INTENSIVE  LIVING 

kitchen  iss  good  to  see.  Dere  iss  shelves  an'  copper 
cooking-dishes  all  shiny,  all  so  happy-looking.  I  like 
dem  way  best.  It  iss  better  not  so  much  moneys  to 
haf,  but  to  be  more  happy  wit'  one's  t'ings!" 

'That  is  the  doctrine  in  a  nutshell!  In  its  poorer, 
more  restricted  days,  the  world  learned  that  secret  of 
the  art  of  living,  and  it  still  lingers  in  corners  that  our 
blatant,  crashing  "  civilization  "  passes  by  —  so  that  a 
Norwegian  peasant's  daughter  may  know  far  more 
than  an  American  girl  "who  has  always  had  every 
thing"  about  the  priceless  secret  of  being  "happy  wit* 
one's  t'ings."  It  is  the  richest  knowledge  a  woman 
can  possess.' 

'What  is  the  real  rock-bottom  reason  why  people 
go  on  piling  up  money  after  they  have  enough?' 
Martha  demanded. 

'I  imagine,'  said  Honoria,  'that  excessive  accumu 
lation  is  a  form  of  egotism.  Now,  if  public  opinion,  the 
race-ideal,  or  what  you  please,  once  demanded  that 
we  vitalize  all  our  possessions;  if  it  were  once  admitted 
to  be  unspeakably  gross  to  demand  more  property 
than  we  can  animate,  as  gross  as  it  now  is  to  over-eat, 
then  the  stress  upon  possession  would  be  transferred 
at  once  from  "How  much"  to  "How,"  and  large  pos 
sessions  would  really  become  what  some  of  the  un 
distinguished  rich  now  fondly  imagine  them  to  be  - 
a  direct  and  sensitive  register  of  the  finer  qualities.' 

Martha  suddenly  and  irresistibly  chuckled. 

I   75   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

'I  have  a  story  for  you,  Honoria/  she  said.  'A  lot 
of  ranchers  over  there/  she  vaguely  gestured  toward 
the  southwest  across  the  hills,  'have  grown  suddenly 
rich,  raising  sugar  beets,  and  have  bought  motor-cars 
and  other  paraphernalia  proper  to  their  improved  con 
dition.  One  of  them  was  heard  to  say,  "I  b'lieve  these 
college  graduates  that  teach  school  'round  here  really 
think  they  're  as  good  as  us  rich  folks."  That  is  the 
real  attitude  of  your  "undistinguished  rich"  toward 
the  gifts  of  culture  and  the  finer  qualities!' 

' Honoria/  said  Grace,  ' have  n't  the  sages  always 
said,  "Give  me  neither  poverty  nor  riches"?  Why 
should  your  propaganda  succeed  where  Job  and  Soc 
rates  have  failed?  Job  lived  a  long  while  ago!  If  the 
race  were  going  to  be  converted  to  his  view,  the  pro 
cess  ought  to  be  more  advanced.  You  will  need  very 
strong  arguments  for  your  doctrine  of  limitations/ 

1  Arguments  are  to  be  had  for  the  picking  up/  re 
turned  Honoria.  '  What  kind  will  you  have?  Reason 
able  limitation  on  the  material  side  always  brings  some 
amazing  flowering  of  mind  or  spirit  like  the  blossoming 
of  a  root-bound  plant.  If  you  want  a  racial  argument, 
consider  the  Irish  —  the  poorest  people  in  Europe  and 
therefore  the  richest  in  spirit.  Poverty  forced  them  to 
concentrate  their  attention  upon  their  neighbors;  there 
resulted  an  astonishing  increase  in  sympathy,  wit,  and 
general  humanness.  —  If  you  want  an  argument  from 
Art,  consider  the  Middle  Ages.  Peering  out  of  a  nar- 

1 76 1 


INTENSIVE  LIVING 

row  world,  hemmed  in  by  ignorance  and  squalor,  the 
mediaeval  artist  caught  sight  of  beauty  and  immedi 
ately  loved  it  with  such  fervent,  personal  passion  that 
everything  he  made  in  its  image  was  vital  and  won 
derful.  As  his  world  broadened  in  the  Renaissance, 
much  of  his  art  grew  florid  and  meaningless,  lacking 
that  marvelous,  intimate  quality  of  the  earlier,  re 
stricted  day.  —  If  you  want  an  argument  from  literary 
material,  there's  the  Picciola  of  Saintine.  You  can 
make  an  imperishable  literary  masterpiece  out  of  a 
convict's  love  for  a  tiny  plant  struggling  up  between 
two  stones  in  a  prison-yard,  but  you  cannot  make  men 
listen  to  tales  of  great  possessions.  The  interest  in 
Monte  Cristo  centres  upon  the  process  of  acquirement, 
and  it  is  the  same  in  any  successful  money-romance. 
Midas  is  only  fit  to  point  a  moral,  never  to  adorn  a 
tale.  —  If  you  want  an  argument  from  philology,  con 
sider  that  the  diminutives  in  every  language  show  the 
lesser  thing  to  be  the  dearer  thing,  always.  Remember 
Marie  Antoinette  and  the  Little  Trianon!  Consider 
the  increasing  specialization  in  science  —  science  which 
always  falls  on  its  feet !  I  know  a  thousand  arguments ! 
The  thing  I  am  in  need  of  is  converts ! ' 

'If  you  could  get  them/  said  Martha,  'there  might 
really  be  a  Woman's  Reformation,  only  it  would  begin 
at  home  instead  of  at  the  polls.' 

'What  other  permanent  thing  is  there  in  life  but 
the  hearthstone?  Nations  rise  and  fall,  laws  and  insti- 

[   77   J 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

tutions  come  and  go  —  but  that  remains,  the  one 
fixed  point  in  human  society.  I  take  it,  therefore,  it  is 
the  one  point  from  which  the  lever  can  successfully  be 
brought  to  bear  on  human  society.  If  anything  is  to 
be  moved  or  altered,  the  force  must  be  applied  there.' 

'But  human  society  has  changed,  Honoria/  urged 
Grace.  'Look  at  all  our  new  powers  and  possessions! 
Steam  and  electricity  have  remade  the  world,  and  we 
are  not  yet  adjusted  to  the  alteration.  No  generation 
ever  lived  under  our  conditions;  thus  we  have  no  tradi 
tions  for  handling  our  new  environment.  No  heritage 
of  ancestral  wisdom  tells  us  what  of  the  hundreds  of 
new  opportunities  to  accept,  what  to  reject.  Save  in  so 
far  as  we  are  thinking  beings  —  and  that  is  not  very 
far  —  we  are  as  much  at  the  mercy  of  our  desires 
as  babies  in  a  toy-shop,  grabbing  now  this  and  now 
that,  heaping  up  a  lapful  of  futilities  and  calling  it  a 
fife.' 

'Yes.  But  why  should  we  make  steam  and  elec 
tricity  serve  our  greed  only?  Why  use  them  chiefly  to 
darken  the  world  and  make  life  a  horror?  Dare  you 
affirm  that  we  women  and  our  demands  are  not  at 
the  very  centre  of  the  tragic  tangle  of  modern  living? 
Is  n't  all  this  horrible  speeding-up  of  business  largely 
an  outgrowth  of  our  exactions?  What  do  men  do  busi 
ness  for,  anyhow,  except  to  get  us  what  we  want! 
Homes  are  to  other  material  possessions  what  souls 
are  to  the  bodies  —  the  centre  from  which  the  life 

1 78 1 


INTENSIVE  LIVING 

moves  outward.  If  there  is  no  greed  in  the  home,  is 
there  not  bound  to  be  less  greed  in  the  offices? ' 

'I'm  not  so  sure,  Honoria/  Grace  returned.  'No 
amount  of  intensiveness  in  the  home  would  eliminate 
man's  love  of  power  for  its  own  sake/ 

'Perhaps.  Yet  is  n't  the  lust  for  power  a  secondary 
development?  We  begin  by  being  greedy  because  we 
want  things;  we  keep  on  after  we  have  more  things 
than  we  know  what  to  do  with,  because  greed  has 
created  the  power-lust.  It  is  the  aftermath  from  that 
ugly  root.  If  the  pressure  the  home  puts  on  the  man 
for  money  were  suddenly  slackened  all  along  the  line, 
above  the  point  of  poverty,  might  not  the  matter  of 
unseemly  accumulations  correct  itself?  If  we  women 
of  the  more  favored  classes  avowedly  undertook  to 
give  quality  to  our  belongings,  instead  of  demanding 
belongings  which  we  hope  will  confer  quality  upon  us, 
there  would  surely  be  both  a  lessening  in  the  stress 
of  life  and  an  improvement  in  its  texture.  I  can  think 
of  nothing  else  but  the  Golden  Rule  that  would  help 
to  solve  so  many  menacing  problems,  such  as  the  high 
cost  of  living,  the  commercialization  of  life,  and  the 
divorce  problem.  Oh,  it  would  be  very  far-reaching, 
that  attitude,  if  we  could  only  achieve  it!' 

'Why  would  n't  plain  Christianity  do  all  your  re 
forming,  and  do  it  better?'  demanded  Martha  ab 
ruptly. 

'Assuredly  it  would  —  if  Christianity  were  more 

[   79  1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

generally  a  condition  instead  of  a  theory  among  us. 
I  would  n't  undertake  to  say  off-hand  why  the  sanc 
tions  of  common  sense  seem  more  precious  to  the 
present  generation  than  the  sanctions  of  religion,  when 
in  so  many  points  they  are  identical,  but  I  must  con 
form  my  theorizings  to  the  fact.  Yet  with  all  our  ne 
glect  of  religion  the  traditions  of  the  spirit  have  not 
changed !  They  are  the  same  from  everlasting  to  ever 
lasting.  And  one  of  the  things  the  nineteenth  century 
most  wonderfully  made  clear  was  that  the  evolution 
of  the  spirit  is  the  thing  Nature  has  been  seeking  for 
hundreds  of  millions  of  years.  I  don't  suppose  that 
age-long  process  with  the  tremendous  impetus  of  all 
creation  behind  it  is  really  going  to  be  upset  by  the 
turmoil  of  one  materialistic  generation.  But  I  do  be 
lieve  that  if  we  go  with  the  current  of  materialism,  we 
and  all  our  works  shall  be  tossed  aside  as  refuse,  thrown 
into  Nature's  garbage-can.  I  tell  you,  I  can't  bear  the 
disgrace  of  it.' 

'Honoria,  you  almost  persuade  me  to  be  intensive/ 
said  Grace,  'but  I  am  not  reconciled  to  the  doctrine  at 
one  point  —  the  question  of  beauty.  I  admit  that  one 
cannot  vitalize  a  lot  of  senseless  luxury.  I  admit,  too, 
that  comfort  and  a  certain  amount  of  beauty  can  al 
ways  be  successfully  domesticated  and  charged  with 
personality,  as  you  phrase  it,  and  that  the  result  is 
completely  satisfying.  But  is  one  never  to  indulge 
one's  self  in  all  the  leauty  money  will  buy,  never  to  have 


INTENSIVE  LIVING 

everything  of  an  absolute  perfection?  You  are  against 
great  houses,  but  there  is  Mountly  House,  at  home. 
It  is  big,  but  so  beautiful  that  you  are  at  home  in  it 
all  over.  What  of  it,  and  others  like  it? ' 

'Big  and  beautiful  it  is,  but  it  is  on  my  side  of  the 
argument,  none  the  less.  If  you  remember,  the  archi 
tect  was  also  the  decorator.  It  is  the  triumph  of  his 
imagination.  He  designed  it  as  a  background  for  a 
woman  of  opulent  beauty  and  domestic  tastes.  He 
ransacked  Europe  for  the  furnishings,  tapestries,  all 
sorts  of  exquisite,  ancient  things.  He  was  a  great 
artist  and  he  created  a  work  of  art.  The  family  fit  into 
the  picture  more  or  less  awkwardly.  It  is  his  house, 
not  theirs  at  all.  And  I  truly  believe  that  the  ultimate 
purpose  of  our  houses  excludes  our  going  up  and  down 
another's  stairs. 

'Yet  I  believe  in  all  the  beauty  one  can  vitalize. 
It  is  essentially  wholesome.  It  does  not  lend  itself  to 
morbid  demands.  The  collector's  passion  looks  like 
greed,  and  doubtless  for  a  time  it  is  greed.  But, 
sooner  or  later,  Too-Much  sickens  them.  Their  ador 
able  possessions  teach  them  there  is  profanation  in 
having  more  wonderful  things  than  they  can  enter 
into  personal  relation  with.  Therefore  the  inevitable 
end  of  all  overgrown  collections  is  the  museum  or  the 
auction-room.  I  have  seen  it  too  often  not  to  know  it 
is  true !  —  If  you  want  a  perfect  illustration  of  this  in 
literature  read  Mrs.  Wharton's  The  Daunt  Diana.  It 
[  81  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

cuts  down  like  a  knife  to  the  essential  fact  that  our 
relations  with  beauty  must  be  limited  enough  to  have 
the  personal  quality.  And  —  don't  you  see?  —  this 
automatic  destruction  of  greed  that  beauty  finally 
teaches  to  the  collector,  is  the  same  automatic  destruc 
tion  of  it  that  I  dare  think  intensive  living  in  our 
homes  might  bring  to  all  greed.  It  is  a  proof  of  the 
theory  on  another  plane/ 

1 1  think  one  might  own  a  Mountly  House  without 
greed/  persisted  Grace  wistfully.  'Having  no  house  at 
all,  I  naturally  refuse  to  think  of  myself  as  ending  my 
days  in  any  less  perfect  domicile.  What  do  you  mean 
by  the  "ultimate  purpose"  of  our  houses? ' 

1  Ah!  that/  said  Honoria,  with  a  quick  indrawing  of 
her  breath,  'is  the  very  core  of  all  my  thought,  and  I 
don't  know  how  to  make  you  see  it!" 

She  rose  abruptly  and  walked  to  the  end  of  the 
veranda.  She  stood  there  a  while,  looking  across  at 
the  spreading  gables  of  her  own  brown  bungalow,  with 
the  yearning  on  her  face  that  only  house-mothers 
know.  Yonder  was  her  home.  Set  on  a  mighty  shoul 
der  of  the  earth,  facing  the  sunset  and  the  sea,  it  clung 
to  the  soil  as  the  brown  rocks  cling.  Behind  it  were 
the  mighty  Sierras  with  their  crests  of  snow;  before 
it,  the  sweetest  land  God  ever  smiled  upon;  within  it, 
all  the  treasures  of  her  eyes,  her  mind,  her  heart.  Just 
as  it  stood  there  in  the  February  sun,  it  was  an  abode 
compact  of  love,  of  aspiration,  of  desire.  The  ancient 
[  82  ] 


INTENSIVE  LIVING 

love  of  man  for  his  shelter  had  gone  into  it,  and  the 
love  of  woman  for  the  place  of  her  appointed  suffering. 
Desire  for  beauty  and  hope  of  peace  were  in  its  making. 
Its  walls  had  heard  the  birth-cries;  her  children  had 
played  about  its  doors ;  out  from  it  had  been  borne  her 
dead.  Inconsiderable  speck  on  the  vast  hill-shoulder 
that  it  was,  it  could  defy  time  and  the  elements,  even 
as  she  defied  them,  for  she  had  given  it  of  her  own 
immortality. 

'I  have  not  yet  said  it  all/  she  said  a  little  thickly. 
'It  is  hard  to  say,  even  to  you.  I  have  found  an  atti 
tude  of  mind,  a  path,  a  way  of  life  I  call  intensive,  for 
lack  of  a  better  name,  and  I  believe  in  it,  not  only  be 
cause  it  increases  my  sane  satisfaction  in  living,  but 
also  because  it  finally  leads  out  —  out  of  all  this  tangle 
of  our  material  lives,  into  the  eternal  spaces. 

'I  see  the  world  of  men's  business  activities  chiefly 
as  a  place  of  wrath  and  greed,  and  yet  even  the  most 
grasping  must  be  blindly  seeking  through  their  greed 
an  ultimate  satisfaction  —  not  more  houses  or  more 
automobiles,  or  railroads,  or  mines,  or  even  power,  but 
something  dimly  apprehended  as  beyond  all  these  and 
more  than  they  —  something  that  is  good  and  that 
endures.  For  we  all  want  the  Enduring  Thing.  One 
man  sees  it  here,  another  there.  As  for  me,  I  see  it  in 
my  house.  I  tell  you,  the  Greeks  and  Romans  did  not 
make  a  religion  of  the  hearthstone;  they  merely  recog 
nized  the  religion  that  the  hearthstone  is.  Under  that 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

quiet  roof  I  have  learned  that  it  is  a  woman's  business 
to  take  stones  and  make  them  bread.  Only  she  can 
make  our  surroundings  live  and  nourish  us. 

' Beyond  the  need  for  bread,  a  woman's  needs  are 
two;  deeper  than  all  cravings  save  the  mother's  passion, 
firm-rooted  in  our  endless  past,  is  the  heart-hunger. 
The  trees  that  sweep  my  chimney  have  their  roots  at 
the  world's  core!  The  flowers  in  my  dooryard  have 
grown  there  for  a  thousand  years!  What  millenniums 
have  done,  shall  decades  undo?  We  are  not  so  shallow, 
so  plastic  as  that !  We  will  go  into  the  mills,  the  shops, 
the  offices,  if  we  must,  but  we  know  we  are  off  the 
track  of  life.  Neither  our  desire  nor  our  power  is 
there. 

'I  have  talked  glibly  enough  about  restricting  super 
fluous  possessions  for  the  sake  of  developing  a  finer 
quality  in  those  we  have;  I  have  said  only  personality 
gives  that  quality  to  our  surroundings  —  but  I  have 
not  said  the  final  thing.  It  is  this :  I  believe  that  in  the 
humble  business  of  loving  the  material  things  that  are 
given  to  us  to  own  and  love,  in  shaping  our  homes 
around  them,  in  making  them  vital  and  therefore 
beautiful,  so  that  they  serve  our  spirits  in  their  turn, 
we  are  not  only  making  the  most  of  our  resources  in 
this  life,  but  are  doing  more  than  that.  Somehow,  I 
cannot  tell  you  how,  I  know  that  we  are  getting  them 
across  —  into  the  timeless  places !  In  making  them 
vital  we  are  making  them  enduring. 


INTENSIVE  LIVING 

'Christ  tells  us  to  lay  up  for  ourselves  treasures  in 
heaven.  What  did  that  mean  to  you  when  you  were 
young?  I  thought  it  meant  a  procession  of  self-denials 
and  charities,  more  or  less  lifeless  because  the  offering 
was  made  slightly  against  the  grain!  I  had 'no  idea 
that  when  I  loved  somebody  very  much  or  pitied 
somebody  very  much,  when  I  shared  my  heart  or 
shared  my  roof  eagerly,  that  I  was  doing  the  com 
manded  thing.  Still  less  did  I  realize,  when  I  worked 
hard  to  make  my  home  more  comfortable  or  more 
beautiful,  that  I  was  sending  vibrations  from  my  every 
day  world  right  into  the  eternal  one  —  every  deed  an 
actual  hammer  stroke  on  my  house  not  made  with 
hands.  But  so  sure  as  that  our  mortal  shall  put  on 
immortality,  I  now  hold  it  that  what  we  first  find  in 
the  eternal  world  will  be  the  things  into  which  we 
have  unstintingly  flung  our  vitality,  our  feeling,  while 
we  are  briefly  here. 

'Here  we  have  no  continuing  city.  But  when  I  am 
making  my  house  live,  I  and  no  other,  putting  into 
it  as  I  best  may  something  of  the  serenity  of  Athens 
and  the  sacredness  of  Jerusalem  and  the  beauty  of 
Siena,  then  it  is  taking  its  place  beside  my  greater  loves. 
Then  I  am  creating  a  home,  not  only  in  this  world, 
but  in  the  next.  I  have  put  something  over  into  the 
eternal  world  that  fire  cannot  burn,  nor  floods  destroy, 
nor  moth  and  rust  corrupt.  It  is  safe,  even  from  my 
self,  forever!  No  Heaven  can  be  holy  to  me  if  I  have 


'  ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

not  made  this  spot  holy.  I  shall  not  ask,  even  from  the 
mercy  of  the  Merciful,  a  heavenly  mansion  if  I  have 
failed  to  make  this  earthly  dwelling  live.  Eternity 
begins  beside  my  hearth,  shaped  by  my  will.  A  wo 
man  knows  P 


Reminiscence  with  Postscript 

By  Owen  Wister 

I 

NOT  alone  because  of  their  good  meat  and  drink  are 
three  meals  shrined  at  the  heart  of  these  following  im 
pressions.  Singly,  each  one  did  delightfully  engage  the 
palate,  but  the  three  together  speak  appealingly  to 
sentiment.  It  is  of  a  great  house,  a  little  inn,  and  of 
the  fair  region  round  about  them  that  I  shall  mainly 
discourse  —  and  whether  I  do  or  don't  give  a  final  x  to 
the  name  of  the  house,  there  are  people  and  docu 
ments  to  say  I  have  spelt  it  wrong:  which  comes  very 
near  to  saying  that  both  ways  are  right.  The  x  shall 
remain,  the  majority  seems  to  favor  it,  and  I  at  once 
beg  that  you  share  my  relish  of  these  posturing  Ren 
aissance  lines,  written  by  royal  command  in  honor  of 
Chenonceaux :  — 

Au  saint  bal  des  dryades, 
A  Phoebus,  ce  grand  dieu, 
Aux  humides  nayades 
J'ai  consacre  ce  lieu. 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

This  highly  plaster-cast  lyric  was  recited  during  the 
'triomphe'  held  at  Chenonceaux  to  celebrate  the  ar 
rival  there  of  Frangois  II  and  Mary  Stuart.  The  host 
ess  was  as  distinguished  as  her  visitors;  and  never, 
before  I  went  to  Chenonceaux,  did  I  associate  naiads 
and  dryads  and  poems  of  welcome  with  Catherine  de' 
Medici.  But  we  must  allow  this  monstrous  person 
age  an  eye  for  good  houses.  She  preferred  Chenon 
ceaux  to  all  her  dwellings  —  she  preferred  it  so  much, 
indeed,  that  she  made  another  lady  get  out  of  it,  ex 
changing  for  it  the  decidedly  inferior  residence  of 
Chaumont.  And  we  have  Catherine  to  thank  (I  fear) 
for  the  strangely  felicitous  fancy  that  placed  upon  the 
arches  built  from  the  rear  of  the  house  to  the  farther 
side  of  the  river  by  her  rejected  predecessor,  Diane 
de  Poitiers,  that  enchanting  hall  or  gallery,  which 
rises  three  stories  high,  if  you  count  the  nine  windows 
in  the  steeply  and  gracefully  pitched  slate  roof. 

Basti  si  magnifiquement 
II  est  debout,  comme  un  g£ant, 
Dedans  le  lit  de  la  riviere, 
C'est-a-dire  dessus  un  pont 
Qui  porte  cent  toises  de  long. 

These  verses  bump  down  heavily  upon  the  bridge, 
and,  despite  their  scrupulous  statistics  as  to  its  length, 
they  scarcely  measure  the  excellence  of  Chenonceaux, 
but  rather  the  gap  between  French  verse  and  French 
architecture  in  the  sixteenth  century.  Villon  could 
[  88  ] 


REMINISCENCE  WITH  POSTSCRIPT 

have  come  nearer  the  mark;  but  Villon  was  long  gone 
before  the  ancient  mill  on  the  river  Cher  was  trans 
figured  by  its  purchaser  into  the  chateau  he  did  not 
live  to  complete.  'S'il  vient  a  point/  said  Thomas 
Bohier,  and  he  graved  it  in  many  ornamental  places  of 
his  edifice,  'me  souviendra.' 

And  here  am  I  writing  his  name  and  thinking  about 
him,  three  hundred  and  ninety-two  years  after  his 
death.  What  a  pleasant  reason  for  being  remembered! 
What  a  quietly  illustrious  introduction  to  posterity: 
the  originator  of  the  mansion  whose  sheer  beauty 
brought  a  succession  of  kings  and  queens  and  other 
great  people  to  sojourn  in  it,  whose  walls'  have  listened 
to  the  blandishments  of  Francois  I,  the  sallies  of 
Fontenelle  and  Voltaire,  the  sentimentalities  of  Rous 
seau.  Do  their  ghosts  walk  here  upon  these  terraces? 
Do  they  meet  in  the  long  gallery  over  the  Cher?  If 
they  don't,  they  are  less  wise  in  the  next  world  than 
they  were  in  this.  Almost  might  one  envy  some  figure 
in  a  well-preserved  piece  of  tapestry,  hanging  in  any 
hall  or  chamber  here  and  commanding  a  view  out  of 
any  window  that  looked  up  or  down  the  placid  river. 
Embroidered  thus  for  ever,  amid  high  company,  ladies 
and  gentlemen  of  importance  with  hawks  and  feathers 
and  armor  and  steeds  richly  caparisoned,  ministered  to 
by  esquires  and  serfs,  one  would  exist  admired,  valued, 
and  carefully  dusted.  Daily  sight-seers  from  all  lands 
would  be  conducted  into  one's  presence  (Sundays  in- 

[  89 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

eluded,  lo-n  A.M.,  2-6  P.M.),  thus  animating  one's 
feudal  leisure  with  sufficient  variety.  There  one  would 
be,  an  acknowledged  masterpiece,  for  ever  aloof  from 
the  unstable  present,  nevermore  driven  to  enlist  against 
the  restless  evils  of  the  world.  The  trouble  is,  some 
body  from  Pittsburg  might  buy  one.  Now  I  could  no 
more  brook  living  as  tapestry  in  America  than  I  could 
live  as  an  American  in  Europe,  expatriated  and  triv 
ially  evaporating  amid  beauties  and  comforts  that 
were  none  of  my  native  heritage. 

Do  you  know  the  country  where  Chenonceaux 
stands?  Do  you  know  the  river?  Have  you  ever  gone 
there  from  Tours,  or  come  there  the  opposite  way, 
from  Bourges  through  Vierzon  and  Montrichard? 

The  region  shares  a  secret  with  certain  rare  people, 
whom  all  of  us  are  glad  to  count  among  our  acquaint 
ance.  Certain  men  and  women,  immediately  on  our 
first  meeting  them,  make  us  desire  to  meet  them  again; 
not  because  they  have  uttered  remarkable  thoughts 
or  reminded  us  of  Venus  or  Apollo :  perhaps  they  have 
said  nothing  that  you  and  I  could  n't  say,  and  we  may 
know  people  much  better  looking.  But  they  radiate  — 
what  is  it  that  they  radiate?  We  feel  it,  we  bask  in  it, 
it  flows  over  us.  It  is  n't  sunlight  or  moonlight,  but 
a  fairy-light  of  their  own.  When  these  shining  crea 
tures  come  into  the  room,  happiness  enters  with  them. 
How  do  they  do  it?  It  gets  us  nowhere  to  say  that 
there  is  ' something'  in  the  tone  of  their  voice,  or 

1 90  ] 


REMINISCENCE  WITH  POSTSCRIPT 

'something'  in  the  look  of  their  eyes:  what  is  the  some 
thing?  I'm  glad  I  don't  know;  mystery  is  growing  so 
scarce,  that  I  am  thankful  for  anything  which  cannot 
be  explained. 

Now  this  rare  quality  (and  don't  flatter  yourself 
that  you  understand  it  because  you  happen  to  know 
its  name)  is  possessed  not  only  by  men  and  women, 
but  also  by  places;  and,  no  more  than  with  people,  has 
it  anything  to  do  with  their  being  remarkable  or 
beautiful.  The  White  Mountains  in  New  Hampshire 
have  n't  a  trace  of  it;  it  fills  the  mountains  of  North 
Carolina;  there  is  almost  none  along  our  Atlantic  sea 
board,  but  it  hangs  over  and  haunts  nearly  every  foot 
of  our  Pacific  Coast. 

Whenever  one  of  these  happy  spots  has  been  long 
known  to  man,  man  has  invariably  cherished  it  in 
word  and  deed.  His  chronicles  celebrate  it;  he  sets  it 
lovingly  like  a  jewel  in  his  romances,  dramas,  verse, 
prose,  song;  he  graces  it  with  his  best  in  architecture; 
his  roads  and  gardens  bring  it  alike  into  his  hours  of 
work  and  of  ease;  in  fine,  he  garlands  it  with  his  im 
agination,  weaves  it  into  his  life  century  after  century, 
until  it  comes  to  smile  upon  him  from  the  heart  of  his 
History  and  Literature,  as  well  as  upon  his  daily 
present.  That  is  what  mankind  has  done  beneath  the 
spell  of  a  place  which  has  charm. 

Thus  Touraine  to  the  Frenchman,  —  beau  pays  de 
Touraine,  as  the  page  in  Meyerbeer's  Huguenots  sings 

[  91  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

of  it  in  that  opera's  second  act,  which  takes  place  at 
Chenonceaux.  I  suppose  —  indeed  I  remember  — • 
that  rain  falls  in  that  country;  yet,  when  I  think  about 
it,  sunshine  invariably  sparkles  through  the  picture  — 
not  the  kind  that  glares  and  burns,  but  the  kind  that 
plays  gently  among  leaves  and  shores  and  shadows; 
sunshine  upon  the  twinkling,  feathered  silver  of  the 
poplars,  the  grapes  in  sloping  vineyards,  the  green 
islands  and  tawny  bluffs  of  the  Loire,  the  quiet  waters 
of  the  Indre  and  the  Cher;  a  jocund  harmony  seems  to 
play  about  the  very  names,  —  Beaulieu,  Montresor, 
Saint-Symphorien,  —  but  were  I  to  begin  upon  the 
music  in  the  names  of  France,  I  should  run  far  beyond 
the  limits  of  Touraine  and  of  your  patience.  Say  to 
yourself  aloud,  properly,  Amboise,  Chateaurenault, 
La  Chapelle-Blanche,  Saint-Martin-le-Beau,  and  then 
say  Naugatuck,  Saugatuck,  Pawtucket,  Woonsocket, 
Manayunk,  Manunkachunk,  and  you  will  catch  my 
drift.  Stevenson's  joy  in  our  names  was  at  bottom 
purely  that  of  the  collector. 

But  have  you  ever  seen  the  Loire  and  its  tributary 
realm?  I  have  already  owned  myself  (together  with 
all  other  men)  as  unable  to  explain  the  mystery  of 
charm.  No  Niagara  is  hereabouts,  nor  Matterhorn, 
nor  anything  you  could  call  sublime;  nothing  so  lus 
trously  beautiful  as  Bar  Harbor,  or  the  Berkshire 
Hills.  Wildness  is  wholly  absent,  but  so  is  tameness 
too.  It  is  somehow  through  its  very  moderation  that 

1 92 1 


REMINISCENCE  WITH  POSTSCRIPT 

the  glamour  of  this  land  is  wrought.  But  we  must 
nicely  distinguish  between  the  poetry  and  the  prose 
of  moderation:  Princeton  Junction,  New  Jersey,  is  per 
fectly  moderate,  and  is  also  the  type  and  pattern  of 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  square,  comfortable,  unof 
fending  miles  in  the  United  States  which  you  would 
never  wish  to  see  again  —  indeed  which  you  would 
never  wish  to  see  once;  whereas,  even  as  I  write,  I  am 
homesick  for  Touraine,  though  it  is  n't  my  home. 

Once  again  I  must  draw  the  parallel  between  human 
qualities  and  the  ways  of  our  mother  earth.  We  place 
at  the  top  of  our  esteem  those  people  who  take  chiv 
alrously  the  heavy  blows  of  life,  who  are  not  brave 
merely,  but  gallant.  We  draw  scant  inspiration  from 
the  sight  of  somebody  who  is  all  too  obviously  and 
dutifully  bearing  something;  who  goes,  day  after  day, 
with  a  set  and  sombre  expression  that  says  as  plainly 
as  words:  'Just  watch  me  carrying  my  Cross.  Just 
wait  till  you  have  one.'  We  prefer  those  whose  gayety 
so  conceals  the  fact  that  they  're  behaving  well,  that 
we  should  never  suspect  it,  did  we  not  know  what 
they  have  passed,  and  are  passing,  through.  Thus  also 
does  Touraine  conceal  the  tears  and  the  blood  she  has 
known.  Louis  the  Eleventh,  Catherine  de'  Medici,  the 
gibbet  balcony  of  the  Salle  des  Armes  at  Amboise,  the 
iron  cage  and  the  black  dungeons  of  Loches,  —  Tou 
raine,  with  her  smiling,  high-bred  elegance,  keeps  all 
this  to  herself,  and  gives  you  a  bright  welcome.  Often 

I  93  1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

as  she  has  been  the  scene  of  Tragedy,  often  as  the 
glaive  and  not  the  lute  has  been  the  instrument  of  her 
drama,  she  might  well  look  in  her  glass  and  exclaim 
with  Richard  the  Second,  — 

Hath  sorrow  struck 
So  many  blows  upon  this  face  of  mine, 
And  made  no  deeper  wounds? 

Wearing  no  crape,  betraying  no  scars,  hinting  naught 
of  its  dark  experience  of  life,  this  realm,  this  beau  pays, 
more  than  any  in  Europe,  to  my  thinking,  lies  in  the 
true  key  of  high  comedy,  of  masque  and  pastoral.  If, 
here  and  there  above  its  trees  or  upon  its  hills,  the 
brooding  frown  of  some  tower,  the  gaunt  stare  of  some 
donjon  in  ruins,  fierce  with  memories,  brings  one  up 
short,  so  that  in  joy's  mid-current  some  smack  of  the 
bitter  wells  up  —  this  is  not  Nature's  doing.  Look 
away  from  these  works  of  man  to  the  feathered  pop 
lars,  the  vineyards,  the  gentle  waters,  and  see  the 
earth's  countenance,  smiling  and  serene.  Decorous  it 
is  always;  only  the  irregularities  of  the  Loire  and  its 
channel  seem  to  bear  any  reference  to  the  conduct  of 
those  beautiful  historic  ladies  who  dispersed  their  repu 
tations  in  the  vicinity.  Even  man  did  not  always  build 
a  Langeais  or  a  Loches.  Urbane  and  gracious  amid 
their  parks  or  on  their  bluffs  rise  those  dwellings 
planned  when  France's  architectural  genius  was  in  its 
happiest  mood  —  though  not  its  loftiest.  They  look 
like  the  good  society  which  once  assembled  in  them; 

[   94   1 


REMINISCENCE  WITH  POSTSCRIPT 

their  mere  aspect  suggests  the  wits,  the  brilliant  talkers 
and  listeners  of  a  day  when  conversation  was  a  living 
art  still,  the  day  which  furnishes  us  even  now  with 
those  letters  and  memoirs  which  are  the  dainty  wains- 
cotting  and  mantelpieces,  the  interior  decorations  of 
Literature.  You  may  wander  almost  anywhere  among 
the  poplars  and  the  chestnuts  in  the  valleys  of  the 
Loire's  quiet  tributaries;  you  can  hardly  go  wrong;  if 
the  turrets  of  Usse  against  their  rising  woodland  do  not 
regale  your  eye,  it  will  be  Azay-le-Rideau,  or  some 
thing  less  famous,  or,  best  of  all,  Chenonceaux,  to 
which  I  now  return. 

n 

I  saw  it  first  upon  an  afternoon  when  no  air  was 
stirring,  even  in  the  poplars,  when  the  green  of  Tou- 
raine  was  changing  to  gold:  golden  fruit,  pears,  and 
apples,  where  summer's  fruit  had  been;  golden  leaves 
flickering  down  from  high  branches,  or  raked  into 
golden  heaps;  while  the  faint,  sweet  smoke  of  burning 
twigs  hovered  in  the  autumn  day.  It  was  the  moment 
and  scene  of  the  year  when,  just  because  other  things 
have  ceased  to  grow,  memories  blossom  in  the  mind; 
and  on  every  golden  heap  of  leaves  retrospect  seemed 
to  be  sitting.  We  visitors  were  three.  I  can  recall  the 
first  sight  of  the  chateau's  yellow  facade,  framed  by 
the  distant  end  of  the  high,  formal  avenue  into  which 
we  turned  to  approach  it.  All  sorts  of  feet  had  stepped 

I  95   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

where  we  were  walking:  almost  four  centuries  of  dis 
tinguished  feet  had  gone  in  and  out  of  that  beautiful 
front  door;  but  over  its  appealing  associations  the  still 
more  appealing  aspect  of  the  wonderful  house  tri 
umphed.  If  I  knew  about  Le  Devin  du  Village  then, 
the  scene  of  its  first  performance  interested  me  much 
more  because  that  long  and  many-windowed  gallery 
was  built  right  over  the  water,  right  across  the  Cher, 
upon  arches  that  the  glassy  surface  of  the  stream 
reflected  symmetrically.  I  was  captured  then  and  for 
ever  by  the  beauty  and  the  originality  of  this  residence. 
Our  best  country  houses  take  earth  and  air  into  part 
nership,  but  this  abode  of  grace  possessed,  embraced, 
a  little  river.  To  go  in  at  your  front  door  on  one  green 
margin  and  come  out  of  your  back  door  on  the  other; 
to  dwell  in  a  masterpiece  that  was  house  and  bridge  in 
one  —  I  can  still  recover  my  first  sensations  of  delight 
at  this  triumph  of  French  art.  Only  —  the  concierge 
did  n't  let  us  go  out  of  the  back  door;  and  my  disap 
pointment  was  cherished  through  long  years,  until  its 
sequel,  which  I  shall  presently  reach.  This  first  after 
noon  became  a  chapter  in  the  most  delightful  of  guide 
books,  from  which  I  quote  the  following:  — 

1  We  took  our  way  back  to  the  Grand  Monarque, 
and  waited  in  the  little  inn  parlor  for  a  late  train  to 
Tours.  We  were  not  impatient,  for  we  had  an  excellent 
dinner  to  occupy  us;  and  even  after  we  had  dined  we 
were  still  content  to  sit  a  while  and  exchange  remarks 

1 96  ] 


REMINISCENCE  WITH  POSTSCRIPT 

upon  the  superior  civilization  of  France.  Where  else, 
at  a  village  inn,  should  we  have  fared  so  well?  ...  At 
the  little  inn  at  Chenonceaux  the  cuisine  was  not  only 
excellent,  but  the  service  was  graceful.  We  were 
waited  on  by  mademoiselle  and  her  mamma;  it  was 
so  that  mademoiselle  alluded  to  the  elder  lady,  as  she 
uncorked  for  us  a  bottle  of  Vouvray  mousseux.' 

On  another  page  of  this  same  guide-book  you  may 
read  how,  at  the  Hotel  de  1'Univers  in  Tours,  the 
chateau  of  Amboise  was  described  to  us  by  an  English 
lady  of  a  type  that  I  sadly  miss  to-day.  One  met  her 
everywhere  then.  She  was  a  more  fragile  sister  of  that 
robust,  brick-complexioned  spinster  who  used  to  climb 
all  the  Alps  in  practical  but  awful  garments.  She 
did  n't  often  venture  to  speak  to  you  for  fear  you 
were  n't  respectable,  or  might  think  she  was  n't.  When 
she  did,  it  was  apt  to  be  with  explosive  shyness,  run 
ning  all  her  words  together,  as  she  did  about  Amboise. 
'  It 's- very-very-dirty- and-very-keeawrious ! '  Curious 
and  furious  she  always  pronounced  to  rhyme  with 
glorious  and  victorious;  and  it  invariably  made  me 
think  of  'God  Save  the  Queen.' 

In  my  interest  as  to  whether  we  should  again  have 
the  excellent  fare  and  graceful  service  which  I  so  well 
remembered  at  the  little  inn,  and  whether  now  at  last 
my  long-cherished  wish  to  step  out  of  that  back  door 
on  the  river's  farther  side  were  to  be  gratified,  Che 
nonceaux  itself  had  so  dropped  out  of  my  thoughts 

[   97  1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

that  it  fairly  burst  upon  my  sight.  Bursting  is,  of 
course,  a  thing  which  that  delicate  and  restrained  edi 
fice  could  never  really  do,  only  I  was  n't  thinking 
about  it  as  our  party  (we  were  four  on  this  second  visit, 
and  it  was  spring-time)  came  into  the  avenue.  There 
at  the  other  end  stood  the  fair,  gay  vision  of  the  cha 
teau,  and  its  beauty  and  wonder  so  suddenly  waked  my 
admiration,  that  I  exclaimed,  'How  young  it  looks !' 
Yes;  it  did  n't  look  new,  but  it  looked  young:  youth 
is  the  particular  and  essential  note  of  this  enchanted 
building.  None  of  its  neighbors  have  it,  not  even 
Azay-le-Rideau  or  Blois,  which  are  its  rivals,  though 
never  its  equals.  Chenonceaux  was  four  hundred 
years  old  in  January,  1915.  Age  makes  one  type  of 
person  decrepit,  and  so  it  is  with  houses.  But  Che 
nonceaux,  if  ever  it  come  to  show  its  years,  will  belong 
to  the  other  type:  it  will  look  venerable.  Did  it,  do 
you  think,  catch  its  secret  from  the  ring  of  Charle 
magne,  by  whose  sorceries  its  mistress,  Diane  de  Poi 
tiers,  was  accused  of  preserving  her  youth?  This  lady's 
success  with  Frangois  Premier  so  disconcerted  the 
amiability  of  the  Duchesse  d'Etampes,  that  she  con 
stantly  reminded  Diane  she  was  born  on  the  day 
Diane  was  married.  —  But  I  resist  the  temptation  to 
dwell  upon  Diane  and  everybody  else  linked  to  Che 
nonceaux  by  history;  it's  all  accessible  to  you  in  books; 
and  I  proceed  with  the  visit  our  party  of  four  made, 
this  spring  day. 

[  98 1 


REMINISCENCE  WITH  POSTSCRIPT 

Touraine  was  now  all  delicate  in  green;  as  lovely, 
as  gracious,  as  discreet  in  its  budding  leaves  as  when 
the  leaves  had  flickered  down,  spangling  the  air  and 
grass  and  garden- walks  with  their  gold.  We  had  met 
at  the  little  inn  the  same  welcome,  the  same  excellent 
cuisine,  the  same  agreeable  Vouvray  mousseux.  Made 
moiselle  was  not  there,  but  mamma  was.  Her  premises 
and  herself  showed  no  ill  effect  from  the  prosperity 
brought  to  her  through  the  guide-book  I  have  already 
quoted.  No  guide-book  in  its  author's  plan,  it  was 
now  become  established  as  one,  and  he,  petitioned  in  a 
letter  from  mamma,  had  corrected  a  certain  error.  In 
the  first  edition,  page  60,  you  may  read  that  we  took 
our  way  back  to  the  Grand  Monarque;  in  later  editions 
it  is  the  Hotel  du  Bon-Laboureur.  The  confusion  to 
travelers,  the  injury  to  her  custom,  ensuing  from  the 
wrong  name,  madame  had  represented  to  the  author; 
and  now  all  was  well.  The  inn  was  n't  any  larger,  but 
more  and  more  each  season  were  pilgrims  with  ex 
pectant  appetites  led  to  her  door. 

'Tenez,  monsieur,'  she  said  to  me  eagerly,  when  I 
narrated  to  her  how  I  had  been  present  at  the  germi 
nation  of  her  renown,  'tenez.  Voila!'  She  showed  me 
the  precious  guide-book.  She  treasured  it,  though  she 
could  n't  read  it,  because  it  was  in  English.  And  I 
came  in  for  her  smiles  and  cordiality,  which  really  be 
longed  to  the  author. 

You  will  have  perceived,  our  party  this  time  took 

[   99  1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS  ' 

their  dejeuner,  not  their  dinner,  at  the  Bon-Laboureur. 
The  good  omelette  and  cheese  and  fruit  and  wine, 
mamma's  prosperity  and  her  well-preserved  state,  — 
for  now  she  was  really  an  elderly  woman,  —  all  this 
had  brought  us  in  peaceful  and  pleased  spirits  to  the 
chateau.  When  we  had  seen  the  rooms  downstairs  and 
the  concierge  was  conducting  the  other  sightseers  — 
some  ten  or  twelve  —  to  the  second  story,  our  party 
under  my  guidance  stole  away  to  the  back  door. 

'Back  door '  implies  no  dishonorable  passage  through 
pantry  and  kitchen;  we  simply  did  n't  go  up  the  stair 
case  in  the  wake  of  the  concierge,  but  independently 
along  the  hall  instead,  and  thus  across  the  Cher 
through  Catherine's  celebrated  gallery.  Le  Demn  du 
Village  came  into  my  mind,  and  I  wondered  which 
figure  was  the  more  diverting,  Jean- Jacques  Rousseau 
composing  opera,  or  Richard  Wagner  dabbling  in 
philosophy. 

The  door  was  open.  I  emerged,  the  happy  leader 
of  my  party,  upon  stone  steps,  crossed  a  little  draw 
bridge,  and  our  triumphant  feet  trod  the  grass  beneath 
the  trees  which  shaded  the  river's  bank.  I  had  my 
wish;  and  as  my  obedient  band  followed  me,  I  fear  my 
complacent  back  and  Anabasis  manner  expressed  some 
sentiment  like  this:  'Only  observe  how  it  pays  to  see 
France  with  a  person  who  knows  the  ropes!'  We 
sauntered,  we  expatiated,  we  paused  before  what  I  '11 
call  by  metonymy  the  tocsin  —  a  great  bell  and  chain 


REMINISCENCE  WITH  POSTSCRIPT 

suspended  from  strong  framework;  from  this  point  the 
chateau,  with  its  fine,  detached,  cylindrical  donjon 
tower  of  the  fifteenth  century,  looked,  in  the  afternoon 
light,  particularly  well:  those  poor  sheep  with  the 
concierge  were  n't  getting  this  view.  We  must  have 
lingered  by  the  tocsin  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  enjoying 
ourselves,  before  returning  to  the  back  door. 

It  was  shut.  It  was  locked.  Rattling  made  no  im 
pression  upon  it,  nor  shaking,  nor  kicking.  We  knocked 
then,  fancying  this  to  be  an  accident.  Next  we  called, 
or  rather,  I,  the  party's  personal  conductor  and  com 
petent  guide,  began  to  call.  Nothing  happened.  I  aug 
mented  my  efforts.  Catherine's  gallery,  famous  scene 
of  the  first  performance  of  Rousseau's  Devin  du  Village, 
responded  with  cavernous  echoes.  Between  these 
reigned  silence,  and  a  gentle  breeze  rustled  the  young 
leaves  of  the  chestnuts.  We  abandoned  the  door  and 
went  a  few  steps  down  the  river  to  where  our  ges 
ticulations  could  be  seen  from  the  windows  of  Che- 
nonceaux.  We  made  these  gesticulations  with  our 
four  umbrellas,  whilst  I  shouted  continually.  Not  a 
window  blinked.  It  might  have  been  a  sorcerer's 
palace,  and  we  his  four  new  victims,  presently  to  be 
roasted,  boiled,  or  changed  into  cats.  We  looked  down 
the  river  —  no  escape;  up  the  river  half-a-mile  was  a 
bridge;  but  what  impediment  mightn't  lie  between? 
And  even  if  the  way  were  clear,  to  go  round  by  the 
bridge  would  lose  us  our  train  to  Tours.  One  of  us,  in 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

her  deep  voice,  said  that  she  hoped  the  robin-red 
breasts  would  find  her  body  and  cover  it  with  leaves. 
Again  we  flourished  our  four  umbrellas,  during  vocifer 
ations  from  me,  at  the  imperturbable  chateau.  Then, 
quite  suddenly,  something  did  happen.  Out  of  a  win 
dow  in  the  donjon  tower  of  the  fifteenth  century  was 
thrust  a  head,  and  from  across  the  river  it  wagged  at 
us  malevolently 

It  was  the  concierge.  The  shock  of  discovering  he 
had  locked  us  out  purposely  in  punishment  of  our 
independent  excursion,  threw  me  into  extreme  rage- 
My  Anabasis  manner  had  already  dropped  from  me; 
but  Xenophon  got  his  party  successfully  back,  and 
this  same  task  was  now  searchingly ,  compellingly,  l  up 
to  me.'  More  malevolent  wagging  from  the  tower  was 
all  that  resulted  from  my  next  demonstrations.  In 
these  I  was  now  alone;  my  party,  at  the  apparition  of 
the  concierge,  had  become  abruptly  quiet,  thinking 
doubtless  that  loud  calls  and  wavings  would  diminish 
my  dignity  less  than  theirs,  whose  years  and  discretion 
were  more  than  mine.  Therefore  my  companions  bran 
dished  their  umbrellas  no  more,  but  stood  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Cher  decorously,  in  a  reserved  attitude, 
patient  yet  stately,  as  if  awaiting  the  tumbril;  I,  mean 
while,  hurled  international  threats  across  the  river. 
These  wrought  no  change.  In  repose  my  French  halts, 
but  when  roused  it  acquires  both  speed  and  point; 
yet  none  of  my  idioms  disturbed  the  concierge  at  his 

[     102     ] 


REMINISCENCE  WITH  POSTSCRIPT 

window.  And  now  I  was  visited  by  inspiration.  I 
seized  the  chain  and  rang  the  tocsin.  It  sounded  as  if 
Attila  were  coming  at  once.  Somebody  would  have 
come,  undoubtedly,  —  the  whole  arrondissement  I 
should  think,  —  but  after  a  few  moments  of  that  din, 
the  head  disappeared;  in  a  few  more  the  door  was 
unlocked,  and  my  companions  preceded  me  with  re 
straint  yet  with  celerity  across  Catherine's  gallery  and 
out  of  Chenonceaux's  front  door  and  away,  down  the 
avenue  to  the  railway,  whilst  I  delivered  some  final 
idioms  to  the  concierge.  I  am  happy  to  record  that 
these  made  him  livid,  and  in  the  presence  of  a  highly 
attentive  audience.  But  —  we  had  in  truth  small  idea 
with  whom  we  were  dealing.  Some  time  later  we  got 
final  news  of  him.  He  had  committed  a  murder,  been 
caught,  tried,  convicted,  sentenced,  and  executed. 

You  will  remember  the  British  lady  at  the  H6tel 
de  FUnivers  in  Tours,  who,  in  her  description  of  Am- 
boise,  pronounced  curious  to  rhyme  with  glorious.  Her 
kind  was  still  pervading  the  quieter  hotels  of  the  con 
tinent  (the  Hotel  de  PUnivers  was  still  quiet)  while  her 
more  muscular  sister  was  still  climbing  all  the  Alps 
in  valiant  weeds.  This  time,  another  of  the  identical 
type  sat  next  me  at  the  table  d'hote,  and  from  the 
comer  of  my  eye  I  perceived  her  to  be  making  endless 
and  surreptitious  dives  with  her  head  at  my  bottle  of 
Vouvray  mousseux.  Becoming  sure  that  this  was 
neither  St.  Vitus's  dance  nor  kleptomania,  but  a  desire 

i  103 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

to  learn  the  name  of  my  wine,  I  made  her  a  slight  bow, 
turning  my  bottle  so  that  she  could  more  easily  read 
its  label;  at  which  she  squeaked  skittishly,  'I-did-n't- 
think-you  'd-see-me ! ' 

in 

The  mid- Victorian  spinster  was  gone,  the  automo 
bile  was  come,  the  much  expanded  H6tel  de  FUnivers 
was  quiet  no  more  and  had  abandoned  the  table  d'h6te 
for  small  tables  when  next  I  saw  Chenonceaux.  Eager 
as  I  had  been  to  return  to  it,  still  more  did  I  desire  to 
enjoy  that  particular  pleasure  which  one  takes  in 
introducing  a  scene  one  delights  in  to  a  friend.  We 
were,  this  time,  as  we  had  been  the  first  time,  a  party 
of  three,  and  the  day  was  July  4,  1914;  but  in  the  Ca 
thedral  of  Bourges  that  morning,  and  at  Montrichard 
and  along  the  Cher  that  forenoon,  firecrackers  seemed 
remote.  Later,  the  Hotel  de  FUnivers  had  illumina 
tions  and  national  melodies  for  the  benefit  of  its  Amer 
ican  patrons  —  these  having  now  swelled  to  the  lucra 
tive  proportions  of  invasion. 

But  Chenonceaux  had  n't  changed,  Chenonceaux 
looked  just  as  young  as  ever.  Its  bright,  serene  aspect 
showed  no  confusion  at  changing  masters  so  often. 
To  my  friends  it  more  than  fulfilled  my  promises  for 
it,  while  for  me  it  was  even  fairer  than  my  memory. 
The  concierge,  a  woman  this  time,  told  her  band  of 
sightseers  enough,  but  much  less  than  she  knew.  She 

[    104  ] 


REMINISCENCE  WITH  POSTSCRIPT 

had  acquired  (one  somehow  divined  and  discerned)  a 
certain  scorn  for  her  sightseers.  She  had  found  (one 
saw)  the  affluent  automobile  to  be  the  chariot  of  well- 
informed  stomachs,  but  seldom  of  intelligences  which 
had  ever  heard,  or  would  ever  care  to  hear,  about 
Madame  Dupin  and  her  many  distinguished  guests. 
They  knew  their  Michelin,  where  to  buy  petrol  along 
the  road,  which  roads  to  avoid;  and  the  road  they  had 
particularly  avoided  was  the  one  conducting  to  civil 
ization.  Some  of  them  were  present  on  this  occasion 
with  their  goggles,  their  magenta  veils,  and  their  brass 
voices.  To  these  the  concierge  imparted  what  she 
deemed  them  able  to  digest.  She  did  n't  mention  the 
Devin  du  Village  —  but  I  did !  This  brought  an  imme 
diate  rapprochement,  as  we  lingered  with  her  behind 
the  departing  goggles.  She  knew  and  loved  her  Che- 
nonceaux;  her  scorn  fell  from  her;  but  she  told  us 
nothing  so  interesting  as  the  fact  that  during  the  last 
twelvemonth  twenty  thousand  visitors  had  given  each 
their  required  franc  to  see  the  place.  The  chateau,  at 
this  rate,  will  pay  its  way  down  the  ages. 

But  what  of  the  Bon-Laboureur?  If  the  mid- Vic 
torian  spinster  and  the  table  d'hote  had  n't  survived 
the  pace  of  the  new  century,  what  had  the  automobile 
done  to  the  innocent  village  inn?  I  hope  you  will  be 
glad  to  learn  that  it  had  n't  —  as  yet  —  done  much. 
I  have  now  reached  the  third  of  those  meals  which  I 
mentioned  at  the  outset.  The  Bon-Laboureur  seemed 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

a  little  larger,  —  people  were  lunching  in  two  rooms 
instead  of  one,  and  out  behind,  kitchenward,  there  was 
a  hint  of  bustle  and  of  chauffeurs,  and  perhaps  the 
personal  note  of  welcome  was  fainter.  But  it  was  n't 
quite  absent;  and  still  the  food  was  excellent,  still  the 
service  was  courteous,  a  pleasant  young  woman  wait 
ing;  and  I  felt  that  here  was  a  good,  small  tradition 
still  somewhat  holding  out  against  the  beleaguering 
pressure  of  the  wholesale.  So  I  spoke  to  the  pleasant 
young  woman  and  inquired  if  the  old  patronne  were 
still  living. 

'Mais  si,  monsieur!'  I  was,  to  my  astonishment, 
answered.  'A  deux  pas  d'ici.' 

The  personal  note  of  welcome  warmed  up  on  learn 
ing  that  I  was  an  old  visitor  here;  the  patronne  would 
value  a  call  from  one  who  remembered  her  good  cook 
ing;  she  was  now  very  old;  she  had  sold  the  business 
and  the  good- will;  she  lived  very  quietly;  would  I  not 
go  to  see  her?  And  her  house  was  pointed  out  to  me. 

Along  the  street  of  the  little  white  village  I  went, 
slowly,  in  the  midsummer  warmth.  The  grape-leaves, 
trailing  and  basking  on  the  walls,  the  full-leaved  trees, 
the  light  and  laziness  of  earth  and  sky,  conveyed  the 
same  hush  of  repose  that  had  exhaled  from  the  golden 
autumn  and  the  delicate  spring  I  remembered  so  well; 
in  this  July  sunshine,  also,  the  pleasant  land  lay  dreamy 
and  unvexed.  At  a  door  standing  slightly  open,  I 
knocked.  Though  a  pause  followed,  I  felt  I  had  been 
[  106  ] 


REMINISCENCE  WITH  POSTSCRIPT 

heard;  then  I  was  bidden  to  enter,  by  a  very  old  voice. 
Two  rooms  were  accessible  from  the  tiny  hall,  but  I 
entered  the  right  one,  and  there  by  the  window  sat  the 
patronne.  I  had  remembered  her  as  moving  alertly 
round  her  table,  quiet  and  vigorous,  above  average 
height.  All  of  this  was  gone;  and  as  her  dark,  feeble 
eyes  looked  at  me,  I  felt  in  them  a  certain  apprehen 
sion,  and  found  myself  unpremeditatedly  saying,  - 

'  Madame,  I  trust  you  will  not  think  ill  of  an  in 
truder  when  you  learn  why  it  is  that  he  has  ventured 
to  knock  at  your  door.  They  assured  me  you  would 
like  my  visit.  Here  is  my  little  story:  One  Sunday 
afternoon  in  September,  1882,  three  travelers  came  to 
the  Bon-Laboureur.  I  was  one  of  them;  and  never 
forgetting  your  excellent  meal  and  service,  I  returned 
at  my  first  opportunity,  in  April,  1896.  Meanwhile 
that  good  meal  of  yours,  and  you  its  hostess,  had  been 
mentioned  in  a  book  by  another  of  those  three  guests; 
and  you  told  me  of  the  prosperity  this  had  brought 
you.  Since  that  visit,  thirty-two  years  ago,  I  have 
become  a  writer  of  books  too.  Of  me  you  will  not  have 
heard,  but  you  cannot  have  forgotten  Mr.  Henry 
James,  whose  praise  brought  so  many  guests  to  the 
Bon-Laboureur.' 

Her  eyes,  during  my  speech,  had  awakened,  and 
now  she  stood  up. 

'  My  servant  is  absent/  she  said/ or  you  would  not 
have  had  to  come  in  so.  But  my  son  lives  close  by  in 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

that  large  place.  He  will  like  very  much  to  see  you. 
I  will  call  him/ 

She  would  have  gone  for  him  on  her  trembling  feet, 
but  this  I  begged  she  would  not  do;  I  had  but  five 
minutes;  friends  were  waiting  for  me. 

'I  am  ninety  years  old/  she  said.  'Ah,  monsieur, 
il  est  bien  triste  de  vieillir.  One  has  nothing  any  more/ 
She  became  suddenly  moved,  and  tears  fell  from  her. 

I  need  not  recall  the  little  talk  we  had  then. 
Strangers  though  we  were,  we  did  not  speak  as 
strangers;  the  memories  that  rose  in  each  of  us,  so 
separate,  so  different,  flowed  together  in  some  way, 
united  beneath  our  spoken  words,  and  made  them 
sacred.  But  I  may  record  that  she  got  out  her  old 
books  to  show  me,  her  registry-books  of  the  B on- 
Labour  eur,  little,  old,  modest  volumes,  where  in  many 
handwritings  through  many  years  the  names  of  her 
guests  had  been  inscribed.  They  had  come  from  almost 
everywhere  in  the  world.  No  longer  strong  enough, 
she  had  parted  with  the  business  and  the  good- will; 
but  from  these  tokens  of  her  past  she  could  not  part- 
She  clung  to  the  inanimate  survivals  of  her  good  days 
and  her  renown.  And  on  a  blank  page  of  the  last 
volume  which  she  placed  before  me,  putting  a  pen  in 
my  hand,  I  wrote  briefly  for  her  of  my  three  pilgrim 
ages  to  her  petit  pays.  Of  the  international  distinc 
tion  of  her  son  she  was  touchingly  and  justly  proud: 
famous  peonies  have  spread  his  name  wide  as  their 
[  108  ] 


REMINISCENCE  WITH  POSTSCRIPT 

cultivator  and  producer.   For  this,  too,  was  the  Bon- 
Laboureur  in  its  way  responsible. 

Perhaps  I  may  not  see  it  again,  or  its  grand  neigh 
bor,  the  chateau,  that  secular  shrine  of  a  vivacious 
and  select  Past.  But  I  shall  need  no  Michelin,  or 
Baedeker,  or  Joanne,  to  guide  my  memories  thither. 
They  are  with  me,  every  moment  and  breath  of  them, 
for  my  perpetual  delight,  a  safe  possession,  unweak- 
ened  and  undimmed;  and  to  conjure  them  before  me 
it  needs  no  more  than  the  haunting  syllables  of  Che- 
nonceaux  and  the  quaint,  cherished  volumes  of  the 
patronne. 

IN  CHENONCEAUX 

My  noiseless  thoughts,  if  changed  to  their  just  sound 

Amid  these  courts  of  silence  once  so  gay 
With  love  and  wit,  that  here  full  pleasure  found 

Where  Kings  put  off  their  crowned  cares  to  play, 
Would  shake  in  laughter  at  some  jest  unheard; 

Would  sing  like  viols  in  a  saraband; 
Would  whisper  kisses  —  but  express  no  word 

That  would  not  be  too  dim  to  understand. 

Like  to  a  child,  who  far  from  ocean's  flood 
Against  his  ear  a  shell  doth  fondly  hold 

To  hear  the  murmur  that  is  his  own  blood, 
And  half  believes  the  f airy-tale  he 's  told, 

So  I  within  this  shell  mistake  my  sea 

Of  musing  for  the  tide  of  History. 


The  Other  Side 

By  Margaret  Sherwood 

LIKE  every  other  attentive  reader  of  our  periodical 
literature,  I  am  increasingly  aware  of  our  persistent 
exposure  of  sin  and  wrong-doing  in  high  places  and 
in  low;  like  many  another  attentive  reader,  I  am  grow 
ing  a  bit  rebellious  against  this  constant  demand  and 
supply  in  the  matter  of  information  regarding  recent 
evil.  Have  we  not  grown  over-alert  in  the  search  for 
this  special  kind  of  news?  We  take  vice  with  our  break 
fast  porridge;  perjury  with  our  after-dinner  coffee;  our 
essayists  vie  with  one  another  in  seeing  who  can  write 
up  the  most  startling  story  of  crimes ;  and  it  is  a  bank 
rupt  family  nowadays  that  cannot  produce  one  mem 
ber  to  expose  civic  or  political  corruption.  Undoubt 
edly  much  genuine  ethical  impulse  lies  back  of  all 
this;  undoubtedly,  too,  much  of  the  picturesque  and 
spectacular  treatment  springs  from  a  desire  to  startle, 
and  ministers,  in  many  a  reader  who  would  scorn 
paper-covered  fiction,  to  a  love  of  the  sensational. 
Surely  it  must  seem  to  the  people  of  other  countries 
that  we  take  pride  in  the  immensity  of  our  sins,  as  we 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 

take  pride  in  Niagara,  in  the  length  of  the  Mississippi, 
in  the  extent  of  our  western  plains. 

Many  may  be,  and  must  be,  the  good  effects  of 
throwing  the  searchlight  upon  dark  places,  but  the 
constant  glare  of  the  searchlight  bids  fair  to  rob  us  of 
our  normal  vision  of  life.  My  poor  mind  has  become 
a  storehouse  of  misdeeds  not  my  own.  I  am  sick  with 
iniquity;  I  walk  abroad  under  the  shadow  of  infamy, 
and  I  sup  with  horrors.  I  shrink  from  meeting  my 
friends,  —  not  that  they  are  not  the  best  people  in  the 
world,  but  I  dread  lest  they  pour  into  my  ears  some 
newly  acquired  knowledge  of  wrong-doing.  For  me, 
as  for  others,  the  sun  of  noonday  is  clouded  by  graft, 
bribery,  treachery,  and  corruption;  and  I  fear  to  close 
my  eyes  in  the  dark  because  of  the  pictured  crimes 
that  crowd  before  them.  Suppose  poor  Christian  had 
had  to  drag  after  him  not  only  his  own  bag  of  trans 
gressions,  but  those  of  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman,  Mr. 
Facing-both-ways,  and  all  the  denizens  of  Vanity  Fair, 
what  chance  would  he  ever  have  had  of  getting  out  of 
the  Slough  of  Despond? 

It  is  not  that  I  wish  to  shirk;  I  am  not  afraid  of 
facing  anything  that  I  ought  to  know,  and  I  have  not 
the  slightest  doubt  that  we  are  all,  in  great  measure, 
responsible  for  our  neighbors'  sins.  But  I  am  not  sure 
that  we  are  taking  the  wisest  way  to  mend  them.  It 
seems  to  me  incontestable  that,  with  the  large  issues 
of  individual  and  of  national  well-being  in  mind,  we 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

are  over-doing  the  exposure,  and  slighting  the  incen 
tives  to  right  action;  emphasizing  the  negative  at  the 
expense  of  the  positive;  and  that,  with  our  weakening 
convictions  regarding  the  things  that  are  right,  it  is 
dangerous  to  go  on  loudly  proclaiming  the  things  that 
are  wrong.  We  are  much  in  the  position  of  a  village 
improvement  society  which  has  pulled  down  a  bridge 
because  it  is  rotting,  and  is  impotent  to  build  another 
and  a  better.  We  have  invested  our  national  all  in 
wrecking  machinery,  and  have  nothing  left  for  con 
structive  tools.  It  is  said  that  in  our  explosive  setting 
forth  of  civic  and  national  wrong-doing,  we  are  all  too 
prone  to  stop  with  the  explosion,  as  if  mere  knowledge 
of  these  things  would  set  them  right.  Mere  knowledge 
never  yet  set  anything  right;  only  the  ceaselessly 
active,  creative  will  can  fashion  a  world  of  law  out  of 
chaos. 

Of  the  criticism  often  made  that  exposure  of  wrong 
should  be  followed,  more  closely  than  is  done  here,  by 
constructive  action,  if  anything  is  to  be  really  effected, 
it  is  not  my  task  to  speak.  The  aspect  of  the  matter 
which  interests  me  especially  concerns  the  youth  of 
the  land;  it  is  the  educational  aspect.  Not  through 
loud  wailing  over  evil  can  a  nation  be  built,  but 
through  resolute  dwelling  with  high  ideals.  In  certain 
ugly  tendencies  of  recent  years  among  the  young,  as, 
for  instance,  the  unabashed  sensuality  of  much  of  the 
modern  dancing,  may  we  not  detect,  perhaps,  a  cyni- 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 

cal  assumption  that  life  is  at  basis  corrupt,  —  a  natural 
result  of  continued  harping  on  evil  things,  and  of 
failure  to  keep  before  them  images  of  moral  beauty? 
Our  magazine  writers  would  be  far  better  employed, 
if,  instead  of  making  our  ears  constantly  resound  with 
reports  of  civic  iniquities,  they  were,  part  of  the  time 
at  least,  studying  Plato's  Republic,  and  filling  mind 
and  soul  with  the  hope  of  the  perfect  state.  Wrong 
things  we  dare  hope  are  of  small  and  fleeting  conse 
quence  as  compared  with  the  right;  it  is  not  the  sin 
of  Judas  Iscariot,  but  the  righteousness  of  his  Master, 
that  has  brought  the  human  race  a  gleam  of  hope  and 
possible  redemption.  When  I  was  told,  not  long  ago, 
of  a  student  in  one  of  our  great  universities  who  had 
elected  'Criminology  16,'  I  could  not  help  reflecting 
that  he  might  far  better  have  taken  Idealistic  Phi 
losophy  i. 

Whether  or  not  our  study  of  evil  should  be  lessened, 
our  study  of  the  good  needs  to  be  vastly  strengthened. 
We  are  losing  the  vision!  'Your  old  men  shall  dream 
dreams,  your  young  men  shall  see  visions,'  said  the 
prophet,  in  promising  wonders  in  the  heavens  and  in 
the  earth,  after  his  account  of  fasting,  weeping,  mourn 
ing,  and  beating  the  breast.  There  is  a  time  for  beating 
the  breast  and  for  tearing  the  hair,  and  of  this  we  have 
had  our  day,  but  perpetual  sitting  upon  the  ash-heap 
and  howling  will  not  raise  the  walls  of  state.  Sitting 
there  may,  in  tune,  even  become  a  luxury;  can  it  be 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

that  we  are  doing  so  much  of  it  partly  because  it  is 
easier,  and  because  the  heaven-sent  task  of  building 
up  and  shaping  is  too  hard  for  us? 

Take  away  from  youth  the  power  of  seeing  visions, 
of  dreaming  dreams,  and  you  take  away  the  future. 
It  would  behoove  us  to  remember,  perhaps,  that  the 
eras  of  great  deeds  have  not  been  eras  of  analysis,  but 
eras  when  the  creative  imagination  was  at  work.  Yet 
our  modern  mental  habit  is  overwhelmingly  a  habit  of 
analysis,  for  which  science,  in  teaching  us  to  pick  the 
world  to  bits,  is  partly,  though  not  wholly,  responsible. 
It  has  brought  us  an  immense  amount  of  interesting 
information;  it  has  brought  also  a  danger  whose  grav 
ity  we  can  hardly  estimate,  in  the  constant  lessening 
of  the  synthetic  power.  The  power  to  image,  to  fashion 
high  ideals,  and  to  create  along  the  line  of  the  imagin 
ing,  is  weakening,  instead  of  growing  more  strong.  In 
the  glorious  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  in  the  unparal 
leled  days  of  Periclean  Athens,  great  ideals  formed 
themselves  before  men's  eyes  and  great  achievements 
followed;  emotion,  hope,  vision,  shaped  human  nature 
to  great  issues.  I  wonder  what  influence  those  perfect 
marble  representations  of  perfect  form  had  upon  the 
very  bodies  of  the  youths  and  the  maidens  of  Athens, 
what  creative  force  they  exercised,  —  the  imaginative 
grasp  of  the  perfect  reaching  forward  toward  perfect- 
ness  in  the  human  being.  I  wonder  what  influence  the 
character  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  alone,  with  '  high-erected 

[    "4  1 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 

thoughts  seated  in  a  heart  of  courtesy/  has  had  upon 
succeeding  generations  of  English  youth.  'A  man  to 
be  greatly  good/  said  Shelley,  'must  imagine  intensely 
and  comprehensively.' 

Here  my  quarrel  with  our  present  intellectual  trend 
and  our  present  system  of  education  becomes  more 
acute.  We  are  not  only  losing  the  habit  of  mind  that 
fosters  idealism,  but  we  are  more  and  more  breaking 
with  the  past.  The  door  of  that  storehouse  of  noble 
thought  and  noble  example  is  being  slowly  but  firmly 
closed,  and  there  is  little  in  modern  teaching  that  can 
meet  the  inroads  made  by  the  devastating  knowledge 
of  evil  of  which  we  have  been  speaking;  little  that  can 
build  up  where  this  tears  down.  Study  of  Greek  life, 
with  its  incomparable  power  of  shaping  existence  to 
ward  the  beautiful,  is  all  but  cast  aside;  most  unfor 
tunately  now,  when,  with  the  rush  of  ignorant  peoples 
to  our  shores,  it  might  have  a  far-reaching  potency 
never  attained  before.  The  ignorance  of  contemporary 
youth  regarding  that  other  and  finer  loveliness  of 
'Gospel  books'  is  amazing.  More  and  more  we  are 
stripped  of  the  humanities;  the  incredulity  of  science 
in  contemplating  philosophy,  art,  literature,  as  part 
of  the  educational  curriculum,  is  full  of  menace.  There 
has  never  been,  I  think,  in  the  history  of  the  civilized 
world,  a  time  when  people  were  so  anxious  to  cast  off 
the  past.  In  our  eager  Marathon  race  of  material  and 
physical  progress  we  want  to  go  as  lightly  equipped 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

as  possible.  The  aeroplane  carries  small  luggage;  our 
light  modern  mind  is  ever  ready  to  throw  overboard 
even  its  precious  heritage,  in  its  eagerness  for  swift 
flight.  As  earlier  days  have  reverenced  the  old,  we 
reverence  the  new,  and  are  all  too  insistently  contem 
poraneous. 

We  need,  as  we  never  needed  before,  a  broader  and 
deeper  study  of  history,  of  philosophy,  of  literature;  for 
most  of  our  young,  a  knowledge  of  the  mental  and 
spiritual  past  of  the  race  is  of  far  greater  importance 
than  a  knowledge  of  the  physical  past,  at  the  amoeba 
stage,  or  any  other.  Science,  much  as  it  can  do  for 
us,  can  never  meet  our  deepest  need;  the  world  of 
imaginative  beauty  and  the  world  of  ethical  endeavor 
are  apart  from  its  domain.  It  has  no  spring  to  touch 
the  will,  yet  that  which  has,  the  magnificent  inherit 
ance  of  our  literature,  is  more  and  more  neglected  for 
the  latest  machinery  that  applied  science  has  devised, 
or  the  most  recent  treatise  on  insect,  bird,  or  worm. 
It  is  well  to  study  insect,  bird,  and  worm,  for  they  are 
endlessly  interesting,  but  I  maintain  that  neither  the 
full  sum  of  knowledge  concerning  them,  nor  even  the 
ultimate  fact  about  the  ultimate  star,  can  be  a  sub 
stitute  for  knowledge  of  the  idealism  of  Thomas  Car- 
lyle,  of  the  categorical  imperative  of  Kant, — for  that 
study  of  the  humanities  which  means  preserving,  for 
the  upbuilding  of  youth,  that  which  was  best  and 
finest  in  the  past,  as  we  go  on  toward  the  future. 

[   "6   1 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 

If  the  swift  retort  should  come,  from  those  who 
think  the  present  the  only  era  of  attainment  and  the 
physical  world  the  only  source  of  wisdom,  that  the  past 
is  full  of  villainies,  of  lapses  from  high  standards,  one 
can  but  say  that  for  ethical  purposes  our  study  should 
be  frankly  a  selective  study,  emphasizing  the  fine  and 
high,  subordinating  the  evil.  There  is  no  hypocrisy 
in  such  selection;  there  is  deliberate  choice  of  the 
higher  upon  which  to  dwell,  as  a  formative  power, 
quickening  feeling  and  imagination.  I  have  heard  it 
said  that  a  woman,  by  resolute  dwelling  on  things  noble 
and  pure,  may  shape  the  inner  nature  of  her  unborn 
child,  and  I  have  faith  to  believe  it.  Even  so  should 
the  nation  yet  to  be  be  shaped  by  resolute  dwelling  on 
the  good.  It  was  not  all  cowardice,  as  many  a  present 
writer  thinks,  that  led  the  mothers  of  earlier  days  to 
say  little  to  their  sons  and  daughters  regarding  evil 
things,  and  much  regarding  right  things.  Doubtless 
greater  frankness  would  have  been  better,  yet  I  doubt 
if  our  protracted  dwelling  on  the  evil  will  produce  bet 
ter  results. 

Should  any  one  object  that  this  emphasis  on  the 
good  means  suppression  of  the  truth,  we  can  but  reply 
that,  for  the  rational  soul,  the  truth  is  not  necessarily 
the  mechanically  worked-out  sum  of  all  the  facts.  That 
we  have  forgotten  the  distinction  between  fact  —  that 
which  has  indeed  come  to  pass,  but  which  may  be 
momentary  —  and  truth,  which  endures,  is  one  of  the 

[   »7   J 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

many  signs  of  what  William  Sharp  calls  the  'spiritual 
degradation '  of  our  time.  Much  of  our  modern  think 
ing  and  teaching,  much  of  our  realistic  fiction,  rests 
upon  a  failure  to  make  the  distinction;  much  that  is 
indisputable  in  individual  instances  of  wrong-doing 
may  be,  thank  God!  false  in  the  long  run. 

'That  is  not  true,  scientifically  true/  we  hear  often 
in  regard  to  some  fine  hope  or  aspiration  of  the  race; 
but  in  the  real  import  of  the  term  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  scientific  truth.  It  is  a  pity  that  a  word  of 
such  profound  and  distinctive  meaning  should  come  to 
be  more  and  more  exclusively  identified  with  the  ob 
servation  of  physical  phenomena,  and  the  formulation 
of  physical  laws,  whereas  the  very  root-meaning  of  the 
word  true,  from  Anglo-Saxon  treowe,  signifying  faith 
ful,  gives  justification  for  the  idealist's  belief  that  vital 
truth  is  partly  a  matter  of  the  will,  not  of  mere  percep 
tion  and  of  intellectual  deductions  drawn  therefrom. 
We  have  need  of  deeper  truth  than  that  of  mere  fact; 
and  the  truth  that  shall  set  us  free  is  a  truth  of  choice, 
of  selection;  it  embraces  that  part  of  human  thought 
and  human  experience  which  is  worth  keeping. 

Faithfulness  to  the  best  and  finest  in  the  past  and  in 
the  present,  rather  than  horrified  gaping  at  the  pres 
ent's  worst,  is  the  attitude  that  means  continued  and 
bettered  life,  for  we  become  what  we  will.  What  are 
we  offering,  in  the  way  of  concrete  examples,  or  of  finely 
expressed  thought  about  virtue,  to  the  young,  to  the 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 

ignorant  nations  who  are  pouring  in  upon  us,  that  will 
help  them  form  their  vision  of  the  perfect?  With  our 
narrowing  knowledge  of  the  greater  past,  our  choice  of 
heroes  becomes  more  and  more  local  and  national,  yet 
our  hierarchy  of  sacred  dead  is  too  small  to  afford  that 
variety  of  heroic  action  and  heroic  choice  that  should 
always  be  kept  before  the  minds  of  youth.  We  teach 
them  that  George  Washington  never  told  a  lie;  we 
teach  them  something  —  and  there  could  be  nothing 
better  —  of  Lincoln ;  but  those  two  figures  are  lonely 
upon  Olympus,  and  the  great  tragic  story  of  the  way  in 
which  Lincoln  faced  the  greatest  crisis  in  our  history 
will  not  alone  suffice  to  help  the  everyday  citizen  shape 
his  thought  and  action  toward  constructive  idealism. 
The  lesser  heroes  of  our  young  republic  have  acquitted 
themselves  nobly  in  this  struggle  and  in  that,  but  the 
struggles  have  been  too  closely  akin  in  nature  to  give 
the  embryo  hero  that  breadth  and  depth  of  nurture 
that  he  requires.  We  need  an  enlarged  vision  of  history, 
and  the  sight  of  great  men  of  all  ages  faithful  to  small 
tasks  as  to  great;  we  need  the  companionship  of  heroes 
of  other  times  and  of  other  nations,  and  not  of  military 
heroes  alone.  Saint  Francis  with  his  unceasing  tender 
ness  to  man  and  beast,  Father  Damien  at  work  among 
the  lepers,  might  far  better  occupy  the  pages  of  our 
magazines,  than  the  pictured  deeds  of  criminals  and 
the  achievements  of  contemporary  multimillionaires. 
If  we  need  a  wider  range  of  concrete  examples  of  the 

[    »9   J 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

good,  we  need  still  more  a  wider  range  of  nobly  ex 
pressed  ideals.  Our  thought  grows  narrow;  we  smother 
for  lack  of  breathing  space.  Benjamin  Franklin's  phi 
losophy  was  far  from  grasping  the  best  of  life,  yet  we 
remember  him  better  than  we  do  our  Emerson,  whose 
plea  for  spiritual  values  as  the  only  real  ones  is  lost  in 
the  louder  and  louder  groaning  of  the  wheels  of  our 
machinery.  The  idealism  that  is  taught  the  young 
in  Sunday  schools  is  too  often  inextricably  bound  up 
with  unnecessary  theology;  and  many  and  many  a 
pupil,  in  discarding  the  latter,  discards  the  other  also. 
The  ideal  of  success  upheld  in  much  journalistic  ad 
monition  is  often  rather  mean  and  low;  the  young  of 
this  country  need  no  printed  incentives  to  urge  them 
into  commercialism  and  the  victories  of  trade.  The 
best  influences  that  are  being  brought  to  bear  upon 
them  are  those  which  concern  social  responsibilities 
and  the  needs  of  the  poor.  Yet  all  this  thought  and 
endeavor  should  supplement  and  not  supersede,  as  it 
is  doing,  a  deep  concern  with  the  things  of  the  spirit; 
and  no  admonition  regarding  hygiene  for  one's  self  or 

others  is  a  substitute  for  — 

A  sense  sublime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man; 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought 
And  rolls  through  all  things. 

[     120    ]. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 

The  great  things  of  the  past  in  all  nations,  history 
can  teach  us;  the  possible,  both  literature  and  philoso 
phy  can  teach  us.  We  must  forego  no  noble  expression 
of  idealistic  faith,  lest  we  impoverish  our  own  souls,  and 
beggar  those  who  come  after  us.  The  pure  intellectual 
passion  of  Bacon's  Advancement  of  Learning,  the  noble 
stoicism  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  the  spiritual  vision  of 
Plato,  of  Spenser,  the  heroic  strain  of  Wordsworth's 
1  Liberty  Sonnets'  and  his  'Happy  Warrior,'  Shelley's 
ardent  and  generous  sympathy,  Browning's  dynamic 
spiritual  force,  should  make  up  part  of  our  life  and 
thought,  checking  our  insistent  impulse  toward  mechan 
ical  things,  and  correcting  the  evil  within  and  without. 
More  than  anything  else,  we  need  a  revival  of  interest 
in  great  poetry. 

'Now  therein  of  all  sciences,'  said  Sir  Philip  Sidney, 
'is  our  poet  the  monarch.  For  he  doth  not  only  show 
the  way,  but  giveth  so  sweet  a  prospect  into  the  way  as 
will  entice  any  man  to  enter  it.  ...  He  cometh  to  you 
with  words  set  in  delightful  proportion,  either  accom 
panied  with,  or  prepared  for,  the  well-enchanting  skill 
of  music;  and  with  a  tale,  forsooth,  he  cometh  unto  you, 
with  a  tale  which  holdeth  children  from  play,  and  old 
men  from  the  chimney-corner,  and,  pretending  no 
more,  doth  intend  the  winning  of  the  mind  from  wick 
edness  to  virtue/ 

The  poet's  'perfect  picture'  of  the  good,  the  great 
image,  causes  noble  passion,  wakes  us  out  of  our  'ha- 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

bitual  calm/  and  stirs  us  almost  beyond  our  possibilities. 
The  imagination  is  the  miracle-working  power  in  hu 
man  nature;  through  it  alone  can  the  human  soul  come 
to  its  own.  Only  that  which  is  fine  and  high  can  feed 
it  aright,  while  baseness  can  make  of  it  a  destructive 
tool  of  terrible  power.  As  I  think  back  to  childhood,  I 
can  remember  the  devastating  effect  that  one  tale  of 
cruelty  had  upon  my  mind,  haunting  me  by  day  in 
vivid  pictures,  turning  my  dreams  to  horror,  and  mak 
ing  me,  while  the  obsession  lasted,  believe  that  the 
world  of  grown  folk  must  be  all  alike  cruel.  So,  too, 
the  compelling  vision  of  the  good  came  through  con 
crete  instances;  and  the  people,  both  the  living  and  the 
dead,  in  whom  I  passionately  believed,  shaped  all  my 
faith. 

The  imagination  of  youth,  —  there  is  no  power  like 
it,  no  machine  that  can  equal  it  in  dynamic  force,  noth 
ing  so  full  of  power,  so  full  of  danger.  We  become  that 
which  we  look  upon,  contemplate,  remember;  it  is  for 
this  that  I  dread  the  ultimate  effect  of  the  long,  imag 
inative  picturing  of  our  neighbor's  sins  now  presented 
in  our  periodicals.  Images  of  evil  can  hardly  help  dim 
ming  and  tarnishing  the  bright  ideals  of  youth;  is  there 
no  way  —  with  all  our  modern  wisdom  can  we  find  no 
way — of  limiting  our  exposure  of  crime  to  the  people 
who  can  be  of  service  in  helping  check  it,  and  keeping 
it  from  those  who  cannot  help,  but  can'only  be  silently 
hurt?  A  moment,  an  hour  of  some  fresh  vision,  and  a 

[     122     ] 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 

child's  destiny  is  perhaps  decided  for  good  or  for  ill. 
One  afternoon's  reading  of  Spenser  made  the  boy  Keats 
a  poet;  who,  knowing  the  potency  of  brief  experience 
in  the  flush  of  youth,  can  doubt  the  lasting  wrong 
wrought  again  and  again  by  the  sudden  shock  of  con 
tact  with  things  evil? 

Many  images  of  wrong  must  of  necessity  come  to  the 
young;  let  them  not  be  multiplied  in  our  feverish  and 
morbid  fashion  of  to-day.  Above  all,  let  them  be 
crowded  out  by  constant  suggestion  of  noble  images 
and  noble  thought,  which  will  work  both  consciously 
and  subconsciously,  shaping  the  dream  when  the 
dreamer  is  least  aware.  To  hold  up  before  the  ardent 
and  impressionable  young  that  which  they  may  become 
in  strength,  in  purity,  would  surely  be  better  than  plac 
ing  before  them  this  perpetual  moving-picture  show  of 
our  civic  and  national  transgressions.  I  can  but  be 
lieve,  as  I  read  article  after  article  of  exposure,  that 
this  continued  presentation  to  youth  of  the  unholy  side 
of  life,  with  our  increasing  tendency  to  make  education 
a  mere  matter  of  the  intellect  and  of  the  eye,  is  bound 
to  lessen  the  moral  energy  of  the  race.  Would  it  not  be 
better  if  we  were  more  diligent  in  searching  history, 
philosophy,  literature,  for  '  whatsoever  things  are  pure, 
whatsoever  things  are  lovely,  whatsoever  things  are 
of  good  report,'  and  in  bidding  the  young  think  on 
these  things? 


On  Authors 

By  Margaret  Preston  Montague 

I  WRITE  myself;  therefore  I  feel  free  to  say  what  I 
please  about  authors;  but  if  you,  sir,  or  madam,  who 
read,  but  do  not  write,  were  to  give  voice  to  the  reflec 
tions  that  are  even  now  beginning  to  distill  from  my 
pencil,  I  should  doubtless  resent  them.  And  here,  in 
deed,  I  am  faced  by  the  sudden  reflection  that  much  of 
what  I  say  myself  I  might  resent  in  the  mouths  of 
others.  This  leads  to  a  whole  new  train  of  thought, 
which,  however,  I  refuse  to  take,  and  board  instead  the 
one  I  set  out  for,  —  The  Authors'  Unlimited.  There 
are  many  things  to  be  remarked  about  authors,  but  in 
so  short  a  paper  it  is  possible  to  touch  upon  only  a  very 
few.  One  of  the  first  facts  that  strikes  the  investiga 
tor  in  this  field  is  that  members  of  my  profession  do 
not  always  appear  to  endear  themselves  to  those  with 
whom  they  have  dealings. 

'What  do  you  think  of  authors?'  I  once  asked  an 
editor. 

1 1  hate  'em ! '  he  answered  without  a  moment's  hesi 
tation. 


ON  AUTHORS 

Another  editor  assured  me,  with  a  weary  sigh,  that 
authors  were  'kittle  cattle.'  This  affords  a  writer  a 
little  leap  of  amusement.  So  editors  surfer  from  au 
thors,  even  as  authors  from  editors!  Well,  yes,  we  are 
kittle  cattle!  But  some  of  this  is  due,  no  doubt,  to 
what  people  expect  of  us.  I  was  presented  once  to  a 
lady  who  immediately  fixed  me  with  an  eager  eye. 

'I  am  making  a  study  of  the  habits  of  authors/  she 
announced.  (Here  a  dreadful  sinking  of  the  heart  as 
sailed  me.)  'Kindly  tell  me  at  what  hour  you  retire/ 

'Usually  at  half -past  ten/  I  answered  wretchedly. 

At  that,  as  I  had  expected,  her  eyebrows  went  up. 
'The  author  of  When  All  Was  Dark, 'she  informed  me, 
'sits  up  all  night.  She  says  she  cannot  sleep  until  she 
has  savored  the  dawn/  However,  she  was  kind  enough 
to  give  me  another  chance.  'What  do  you  eat?'  she 
asked. 

'Three  hearty  meals  a  day/  I  answered. 

'Not  breakfast/'  she  pleaded.  'Why,  St.  George 
Dreamer  never  takes  more  than  three  drops  of  brandy 
on  a  lump  of  sugar  in  the  morning.  Just  the  sight  of  a 
coffee  cup  will  upset  his  work  for  a  week.' 

And  then  she  left  me,  sure,  I  have  no  doubt,  that  no 
real  author  could  confess  to  such  distressingly  normal 
habits  as  mine. 

Doubtless  she  is  an  eager  reader  of  all  those  little 
paragraphs  informing  us  how  authors  write.  How  this 
one  has  to  have  his  black  mammy  rub  his  head  for  an 

[     125     1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

hour  before  he  can  even  think  of  work;  and  that  one 
confesses  that  to  write  a  love  scene  she  must  have  the 
odor  of  decayed  bananas  in  the  room.  Well,  the  world 
would  be  a  sadder  place  without  these  little  paragraphs. 
Would  that  I  had  something  of  a  like  nature  to  offer! 
But  alas!  I  have  no  black  mammy,  and  the  smell  of 
over-ripe  fruit  leaves  my  hero  cold.  Also,  to  give  forth 
such  gems  of  information  one  must  be  able  to  observe 
a  certain  rule.  It  is,  Don't  laugh  or  you  might  wake 
up.  This  rule  is  always  sacredly  in  force  at  literary 
gatherings.  The  fact  of  being  an  author,  and  of  being 
at  an  authors'  meeting,  induces,  it  appears,  an  intense 
seriousness.  In  my  younger  days  I  did  not  realize  this, 
and  once  at  a  gathering  of  this  nature,  I  asked  a  care 
free  question.  'Do  you  think/  I  inquired  of  the  author 
next  me, l  that  it  is  possible  for  an  unmusical  person  to 
write  verse?' 

I  confess  now  that  I  put  the  question  somewhat  in 
the  spirit  of  the  Irishman,  who,  asking  after  his  friend's 
health,  added,  'Not  that  I  care  a  damn,  but  it  makes 
conversation.'  Heaven  defend  me  from  ever  again 
making  so  much  conversation !  A  gleam  shot  up  in  my 

author's  eye.  'Let  us  go  over  and  ask  Professor ' 

he  cried.  'He  wrote  What  Poets  Cannot  Do.  He's  just 
the  man  to  tell  us!'  And  before  I  could  escape,  he 
dragged  me  through  the  press  of  authors,  and  flung  me 
before  the  professor,  with  the  tag,  'Unmusical,  but 
aspires  to  write  verse,  —  is  this  possible? ' 
F  126  1 


ON  AUTHORS 

I  know  now  how  the  beetle  feels  beneath  the  micro 
scope.  Seeing  the  little  group  we  made,  two  young 
authors 'hurried  up,  and  more,  and  more,  and  more.' 
They  surrounded  me  to  listen,  to  inspect,  to  comment; 
they  asked  one  another  eager  questions  about  me,  they 
compared  notes,  they  appealed  to  the  author  of  What 
Poets  Cannot  Do,  and  always  their  dreadful  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  me.  Never,  never  again  will  I  dare  the 
dreadful  seriousness  of  an  authors'  meeting  with  an 
idle  question! 

I  have  also  learned  another  lesson.  It  is  how  to  con 
verse  with  authors.  I  shudder  now  to  think  of  my  early 
and  crude  attempts  in  this  matter.  The  remembrance 
of  one  particular  occasion  stands  out  with  dreadful 
vividness.  I  had  been  introduced  to  a  distinguished 
writer.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  mine  for  a  wan  instant, 
a  pale  flicker  of  recognition  passed  over  her  face,  and 
then  —  silence.  Readers,  —  nay,  let  me  call  you 
friends  while  I  make  this  terrible  confession, —  I  broke 
that  silence!  I  was  young;  I  did  not  understand.  I  do 
now.  I  have  never  been  able  since  to  read  '  The  An 
cient  Mariner ' — I  know  too  well  the  awfulness  of  hav 
ing  shot  an  albatross.  'The  lady/ 1  said  to  my  inexpe 
rienced  self, '  does  not  care  to  converse ;  she  expects  you 
to  do  so.'  Accordingly,  I  broke  into  light  and  cheerful 
talk,  something  in  conversation  corresponding,  I  fear, 
to  what  in  dry  goods  the  clerk  recommends  as  '  a  nice 
line  of  spring  styles.'  I  realize  that  only  a  series  of 
[  127  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

illustrations  can  make  the  situation  clear.  Imagine 
then,  if  you  please,  a  tinkling  cymbal  serenading  a 
smouldering  volcano;  a  puppy  trying  to  woo  the 
Sphinx  to  a  game  of  tag;  sunlit  waves  breaking  upon  a 
'stern  and  rock-bound  coast/  and  you  may  get  a  faint 
idea  of  the  situation.  I  began  almost  immediately 
to  experience  that  far-from-home  sensation  of  which 
Humpty-Dumpty  speaks  with  so  much  feeling.  As  I  be 
held  one  after  another  of  my  little  remarks  dash  itself 
to  nothingness  against  that  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 
only  the  time  and  the  place  kept  me  from  bursting  into 
tears.  Fortunately  it  did  not  last  too  long.  In  another 
minute  one  or  the  other  of  us  would  have  shattered 
into  the  maniac's  wild  laughter.  And  I  have  every 
reason  to  fear  that  I  should  have  been  that  one. 
Others,  however,  realizing  the  awful  thing  I  was  doing, 
rushed  up  and  separated  us.  Sympathetic  hands  were 
stretched  to  her;  low  words  were  murmured,  and  she 
was  drawn  into  a  secluded  corner  where  her  silence 
might  be  preserved  from  any  further  onslaughts  of  a 
like  sacrilegious  nature.  But  no  one  stretched  a  hand 
to  me;  no  sympathetic  words  were  murmured  in  my 
ear! 

I  now  know  that  in  conversations  with  authors  there 
should  be  long  pauses.  This  is  because  every  remark, 
after  being  received  by  the  ear,  must  be  submitted  to 
a  strict  brain  analysis,  and  then  given  a  soul-bath  be 
fore  it  is  proper  to  venture  a  reply.  I  have  found,  also, 

128 


ON  AUTHORS 

that  in  answering  too  quickly,  I  myself  lose  caste.  I 
now  make  it  a  point  never  to  respond  to  a  question 
addressed  to  me  by  an  author  until  I  have  counted 
twenty.  If  the  author  is  very  distinguished,  I  make  it 
fifty  for  good  measure. 

Much  more  remains  to  be  said  about  authors.  I 
realize  that  I  have,  as  it  were,  merely  scraped  the  sur 
face  of  the  subject.  Space,  however,  allows  me  only 
room  to  add  one  last  anecdote.  But  this  one  may  in 
deed  prove  more  illuminating  than  all  that  has  gone 
before.  Once,  then,  in  a  certain  city  where  I  was  visit 
ing,  I  was  invited  to  attend  a  meeting  of  its  authors' 
club.  'Now  at  this  meeting,'  I  instructed  myself  be 
fore  going,  'you  will  probably  encounter  the  most  seri 
ous  species  of  author  native  to  this  climate.'  Accord 
ingly  I  set  forth  with  a  light  and  expectant  heart.  As 
I  entered  the  hall  I  was  aware  of  another  person  enter 
ing  from  an  opposite  door,  —  a  serious,  awkward  per 
son,  with  just  that  peculiar,  vague,  and  almost  feeble 
minded  expression  that  I  have  come  to  associate  with 
writers  in  general.  'Behold,  my  child,  the  SERIOUS 
AUTHOR,'  I  commented  happily  to  myself.  I  looked 
again,  and  saw  it  was  myself  in  a  mirror! 


The  Provincial  American 

By  Meredith  Nicholson 

Viola.    What  country,  friends,  is  this? 
Captain.  Illyria,  lady. 

Viola.     And  what  should  I  do  in  Illyria? 
My  brother  he  is  in  Elysium. 

—  Twelfth  Night. 

I  AM  a  provincial  American.  My  forbears  were  farm 
ers  or  country- town  folk.  They  followed  the  long  trail 
over  the  mountains  out  of  Virginia  and  North  Caro 
lina,  with  brief  sojourns  in  Western  Pennsylvania  and 
Kentucky.  My  parents  were  born,  the  one  in  Ken 
tucky,  the  other  in  Indiana,  within  two  and  four  hours 
of  the  spot  where  I  pen  these  reflections,  and  I  was  a 
grown  man  and  had  voted  before  I  saw  the  sea  or  any 
Eastern  city. 

In  attempting  to  illustrate  the  provincial  point  of 
view  out  of  my  own  experiences  I  am  moved  by  no 
wish  to  celebrate  either  the  Hoosier  commonwealth  — 
which  has  not  lacked  nobler  advertisement  —  or  my 
self  ;  but  by  the  hope  that  I  may  cheer  many  who,  flung 
by  fate  upon  the  world's  byways,  shuffle  and  shrink 
under  the  reproach  of  their  metropolitan  brethren. 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 

Mr.  George  Ade  has  said,  speaking  of  our  fresh 
water  colleges,  that  Purdue  University,  his  own  alma 
mater,  offers  everything  that  Harvard  provides  except 
the  sound  of  a  as  in  father.  I  have  been  told  that  I 
speak  our  lingua  rustica  only  slightly  corrupted  by 
urban  contacts.  Anywhere  east  of  Buffalo  I  should  be 
known  as  a  Westerner;  I  could  not  disguise  myself  if 
I  would.  I  find  that  I  am  most  comfortable  in  a  town 
whose  population  does  not  exceed  a  fifth  of  a  million, 
-  the  kind  of  place  that  enjoys  street-car  transfers,  a 
woman's  club,  and  a  post  office  with  carrier  delivery. 


Across  a  hill-slope  that  knew  my  childhood,  a  bugle's 
grieving  melody  used  to  float  often  through  the  sum 
mer  twilight.  A  highway  lay  hidden  in  the  little  vale 
below,  and  beyond  it  the  unknown  musician  was  quite 
concealed,  and  was  never  visible  to  the  world  I  knew. 
Those  trumpetings  have  lingered  always  in  my  mem 
ory,  and  color  my  recollection  of  all  that  was  near  and 
dear  in  those  days.  Men  who  had  left  camp  and  field 
for  the  soberer  routine  of  civil  life  were  not  yet  fully 
domesticated.  My  bugler  was  merely  solacing  himself 
for  lost  joys  by  recurring  to  the  vocabulary  of  the  trum 
pet.  I  am  confident  that  he  enjoyed  himself;  and  I  am 
equally  sure  that  his  trumpetings  peopled  the  dusk  for 
me  with  great  captains  and  mighty  armies,  and  touched 
with  a  certain  militancy  all  my  youthful  dreaming. 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

No  American  boy  born  during  or  immediately  after 
the  Civil  War  can  have  escaped  in  those  years  the  vivid 
impressions  derived  from  the  sight  and  speech  of  men 
who  had  fought  its  battles,  or  women  who  had  known 
its  terror  and  grief.  Chief  among  my  playthings  on 
that  peaceful  hillside  was  the  sword  my  father  had 
borne  at  Shiloh  and  on  to  the  sea;  and  I  remember,  too, 
his  uniform  coat  and  sash  and  epaulets  and  the  tat 
tered  guidon  of  his  battery,  that,  falling  to  my  lot  as 
toys,  yet  imparted  to  my  childish  consciousness  a  sense 
of  what  war  had  been.  The  young  imagination  was 
kindled  in  those  days  by  many  and  great  names.  Lin 
coln,  Grant,  and  Sherman  were  among  the  first  lispings 
of  Northern  children  of  my  generation;  and  in  the  lit 
tle  town  where  I  was  born,  lived  men  who  had  spoken 
with  them  face  to  face.  I  did  not  know,  until  I  sought 
them  later  for  myself,  the  fairy  tales  that  are  every 
child's  birthright;  and  I  imagine  that  children  of  my 
generation  heard  less  of 

old,  unhappy,  far-off  things 
And  battles  long  ago, 

and  more  of  the  men  and  incidents  of  contemporane 
ous  history.  Great  spirits  still  on  earth  were  sojourn 
ing.  I  saw  several  times,  in  his  last  years,  the  iron- 
willed  Hoosier  War  Governor,  Oliver  P.  Morton.  By 
the  time  I  was  ten,  a  broader  field  of  observation  open 
ing  through  my  parents'  removal  to  the  state  capital,  I 
had  myself  beheld  Grant  and  Sherman;  and  every  day 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 

I  passed  in  the  street  men  who  had  been  partners  with 
them  in  the  great,  heroic,  sad,  splendid  struggle.  These 
things  I  set  down  as  a  background  for  the  observations 
that  follow,  —  less  as  text  than  as  point  of  departure ; 
yet  I  believe  that  bugler,  sounding  charge  and  retreat 
and  taps  in  the  dusk,  and  those  trappings  of  war  be 
neath  whose  weight  I  strutted  upon  that  hillside,  did 
much  toward  establishing  in  me  a  certain  habit  of 
mind.  From  that  hillside  I  have  since  ineluctably 
viewed  my  country  and  my  countrymen  and  the 
larger  world. 

Emerson  records  Thoreau's  belief  that  'the  flora  of 
Massachusetts  embraced  almost  all  the  important 
plants  of  America,  —  most  of  the  oaks,  most  of  the 
willows,  the  best  pines,  the  ash,  the  maple,  the  beech, 
the  nuts.  He  returned  Kane's  arctic  voyage  to  a  friend 
of  whom  he  had  borrowed  it,  with  the  remark,  that 
most  of  the  phenomena  noted  might  be  observed  in 
Concord.' 

The  complacency  of  the  provincial  mind  is  due  less, 
I  believe,  to  stupidity  and  ignorance,  than  to  the  fact 
that  every  American  county  is  in  a  sense  complete,  a 
political  and  social  unit,  in  which  the  sovereign  rights 
of  a  free  people  are  expressed  by  the  courthouse  and 
town  hall,  spiritual  freedom  by  the  village  church-spire, 
and  hope  and  aspiration  in  the  school-house.  Every 
reader  of  American  fiction,  particularly  in  the  realm  of 
the  short  story,  must  have  observed  the  great  variety . 

[  133  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

of  quaint  and  racy  characters  disclosed.  These  are  the 
dramatis  persona  of  that  great  American  novel  which 
some  one  has  said  is  being  written  in  installments. 
Writers  of  fiction  hear  constantly  of  characters  who 
would  be  well  worth  their  study.  In  reading  two  recent 
novels  that  penetrate  to  the  heart  of  provincial  life, 
Mr.  White's  A  Certain  Rich  Man  and  Mrs.  Watts's 
Nathan  Burke,  I  felt  that  the  characters  depicted 
might,  with  unimportant  exceptions,  have  been  found 
almost  anywhere  in  those  American  states  that  shared 
the  common  history  of  Kansas  and  Ohio.  Mr.  Winston 
Churchill,  in  his  admirable  novels  of  New  England,  has 
shown  how  closely  the  purely  local  is  allied  to  the  uni 
versal.  '  Woodchuck  sessions '  have  been  held  by  many 
American  legislatures. 

When  David  Harum  appeared,  characters  similar  to 
the  hero  of  that  novel  were  reported  in  every  part  of 
the  country.  I  rarely  visit  a  town  that  has  not  its 
cracker-barrel  philosopher,  or  a  poet  who  would  shine 
but  for  the  callous  heart  of  the  magazine  editor,  or 
an  artist  of  supreme  though  unrecognized  talent,  or  a 
forensic  orator  of  wonderful  powers,  or  a  mechanical 
genius  whose  inventions  are  bound  to  revolutionize  the 
industrial  world.  In  Maine,  in  the  back  room  of  a  shop 
whose  windows  looked  down  upon  a  tidal  river,  I  have 
listened  to  tariff  discussions  in  the  dialect  of  Hosea 
Biglow;  and  a  few  weeks  later  have  heard  farmers 
along  the  un-salt  Wabash  debating  the  same  questions 

i  134  ] 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 

from  a  point  of  view  that  revealed  no  masted  ships  or 
pine  woods,  with  a  new  sense  of  the  fine  tolerance  and 
sanity  and  reasonableness  of  our  American  people. 
Mr.  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  one  of  the  shrewdest  stu 
dents  of  provincial  character,  introduced  me  one  day 
to  a  friend  of  his  in  a  village  near  Indianapolis  who 
bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  Abraham  Lincoln,  and 
who  had  something  of  Lincoln's  gift  of  humorous  nar 
ration.  This  man  kept  a  country  store,  and  his  attitude 
toward  his  customers,  and  t  trade '  in  general,  was  deli 
cious  in  its  drollery.  Men  said  to  be  'like  Lincoln' 
have  not  been  rare  in  the  Mississippi  Valley,  and  poli 
ticians  have  been  known  to  encourage  belief  in  the 
resemblance. 

Colonel  Higginson  has  said  that  in  the  Cambridge 
of  his  youth  any  member  of  the  Harvard  faculty  could 
answer  any  question  within  the  range  of  human  knowl 
edge;  whereas  in  these  days  of  specialization  some  man 
can  answer  the  question,  but  it  may  take  a  week's  in 
vestigation  to  find  him.  In  'our  town'  --a  poor  vir 
gin,  sir,  an  ill-favored  thing,  sir,  but  mine  own!  —  I 
dare  say  it  was  possible  in  that  post  bcllum  era  to  find 
men  competent  to  deal  with  almost  any  problem. 
These  were  mainly  men  of  humble  beginnings  and  all 
essentially  the  product  of  our  American  provinces. 
I  should  like  to  set  down  briefly  the  ineffaceable  impres 
sion  some  of  these  characters  left  upon  me.  I  am  pre 
cluded  by  a  variety  of  considerations  from  extending 

i  135 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

this  recital.  The  rich  field  of  education  I  ignore  alto 
gether;  and  I  may  mention  only  those  who  have  gone. 
As  it  is  beside  my  purpose  to  prove  that  mine  own  peo 
ple  are  other  than  typical  of  those  of  most  American 
communities,  I  check  my  exuberance.  Sad  indeed  the 
offending  if  I  should  protest  too  much! 

II 

In  the  days  when  the  bugle  still  mourned  across  the 
vale,  Lew  Wallace  was  a  citizen  of  my  native  town  of 
Crawfordsville.  There  he  had  amused  himself  in  the 
years  immediately  before  the  civil  conflict,  in  drilling  a 
company  of  t  Algerian  Zouaves '  known  as  the  Mont 
gomery  Guards,  of  which  my  father  was  a  member, 
and  this  was  the  nucleus  of  the  Eleventh  Indiana  Regi 
ment  which  Wallace  commanded  in  the  early  months  of 
the  war.  It  is  not,  however,  of  Wallace's  military  serv 
ices  that  I  wish  to  speak  now,  nor  of  his  writings,  but 
of  the  man  himself  as  I  knew  him  later  at  the  capital, 
at  a  time  when,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  federal 
building  at  Indianapolis,  any  boy  might  satisfy  his 
longing  for  heroes  with  a  sight  of  many  of  our  Hoosier 
Olympians.  He  was  of  medium  height,  erect,  dark  to 
swarthiness,  with  finely  chiseled  features  and  keen, 
black  eyes,  with  manners  the  most  courtly,  and  a 
voice  unusually  musical  and  haunting.  His  appearance, 
his  tastes,  his  manner,  were  strikingly  Oriental. 

He  had  a  strong  theatric  instinct,  and  his  life  was 

i  136 1 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 

filled  with  drama  —  with  melodrama,  even.  His  curi 
osity  led  him  into  the  study  of  many  subjects,  most  of 
them  remote  from  the  affairs  of  his  day.  He  was  both 
dreamer  and  man  of  action;  he  could  be ' idler  than  the 
idlest  flowers/  yet  he  was  always  busy  about  some 
thing.  He  was  an  aristocrat  and  a  democrat;  he  was 
wise  and  temperate,  whimsical  and  injudicious  in  a 
breath.  As  a  youth  he  had  seen  visions,  and  as  an  old 
man  he  dreamed  dreams.  The  mysticism  in  him  was 
deep-planted,  and  he  was  always  a  little  aloof,  a  man 
apart.  His  capacity  for  detachment  was  like  that  of 
Sir  Richard  Burton,  who,  at  a  great  company  given  in 
his  honor,  was  found  alone  poring  over  a  puzzling  Ara 
bic  manuscript  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  house.  Wal 
lace,  like  Burton,  would  have  reached  Mecca,  if  chance 
had  led  him  to  that  adventure. 

Wallace  dabbled  in  politics  without  ever  being  a 
politician;  and  I  might  add  that  he  practiced  law  with 
out  ever  being,  by  any  high  standard,  a  lawyer.  He 
once  spoke  of  the  law  as  '  that  most  detestable  of  hu 
man  occupations.'  First  and  last  he  tried  his  hand  at 
all  the  arts.  He  painted  a  little;  he  moulded  a  little 
in  clay;  he  knew  something  of  music  and  played  the 
violin;  he  made  three  essays  in  romance.  As  boy  and 
man  he  went  soldiering;  he  was  a  civil  governor,  and 
later  a  minister  to  Turkey.  In  view  of  his  sympathetic 
interest  in  Eastern  life  and  character,  nothing  could 
have  been  more  appropriate  than  his  appointment  to 

[  137 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

Constantinople.  The  Sultan  Abdul  Hamid,  harassed 
and  anxious,  used  to  send  for  him  at  odd  hours  of  the 
night  to  come  and  talk  to  him,  and  offered  him  on  his 
retirement  a  number  of  positions  in  the  Turkish  gov 
ernment. 

With  all  this  rich  experience  of  the  larger  world,  he 
remained  the  simplest  of  natures.  He  was  as  interested 
in  a  new  fishing-tackle  as  in  a  new  book,  and  carried 
both  to  his  houseboat  on  the  Kankakee,  where,  at  odd 
moments,  he  retouched  a  manuscript  for  the  press,  and 
discussed  politics  with  the  natives.  Here  was  a  man 
who  could  talk  of  the  Song  of  Roland  as  zestfully  as 
though  it  had  just  been  reported  from  the  telegraph 
office. 

I  frankly  confess  that  I  never  met  him  without  a 
thrill,  even  in  his  last  years  and  when  the  ardor  of  my 
youthful  hero  worship  may  be  said  to  have  passed.  He 
was  an  exotic,  our  Hoosier  Arab,  our  story-teller  of  the 
bazaars.  When  I  saw  him  in  his  last  illness,  it  was  as 
though  I  looked  upon  a  gray  sheik  about  to  fare  forth 
unawed  toward  unmapped  oases. 

No  lesson  of  the  Civil  War  was  more  striking  than 
that  taught  by  the  swift  transitions  of  our  citizen  sol 
diery  from  civil  to  military  life,  and  back  again.  This 
impressed  me  as  a  boy,  and  I  used  to  wonder,  as  I 
passed  my  heroes  on  their  peaceful  errands  in  the 
street,  why  they  had  put  down  the  sword  when  there 
must  still  be  work  somewhere  for  righting  men  to  do. 

[  138 1 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 

The  judge  of  the  federal  court  at  this  time  was  Wal 
ter  Q.  Gresham,  brevetted  brigadier-general,  who  was 
destined  later  to  adorn  the  cabinets  of  presidents  of 
two  political  parties.  He  was  cordial  and  magnetic; 
his  were  the  handsomest  and  friendliest  of  brown  eyes, 
and  a  noble  gravity  spoke  in  them.  Among  the  lawyers 
who  practiced  before  him  were  Benjamin  Harrison 
and  Thomas  A.  Hendricks,  who  became  respectively 
President  and  Vice-President. 

Those  Hoosiers  who  admired  Gresham  ardently 
were  often  less  devotedly  attached  to  Harrison,  who 
lacked  Gresham's  warmth  and  charm.  General  Harri 
son  was  akin  to  the  Covenanters  who  bore  both  Bible 
and  sword  into  battle.  His  eminence  in  the  law  was 
due  to  his  deep  learning  in  its  history  and  philosophy. 
Short  of  stature,  and  without  grace  of  person,  —  with 
a  voice  pitched  rather  high,  —  he  was  a  remarkably 
interesting  and  persuasive  speaker.  If  I  may  so  put  it, 
his  political  speeches  were  addressed  as  to  a  trial  judge 
rather  than  to  a  jury,  his  appeal  being  to  reason  and 
not  to  passion  or  prejudice.  He  could,  in  rapid  flights 
of  campaigning,  speak  to  many  audiences  in  a  day 
without  repeating  himself.  He  was  measured  and  ur 
bane;  his  discourses  abounded  in  apt  illustration;  he 
was  never  dull.  He  never  stooped  to  pietistic  clap 
trap,  or  chanted  the  jaunty  chauvinism  that  has  so 
often  caused  the  Hoosier  stars  to  blink. 

Among  the  Democratic  leaders  of  that  period,  Hen- 

[  139 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

dricks  was  one  of  the  ablest,  and  a  man  of  many  at 
tractive  qualities.  His  dignity  was  always  impressive, 
and  his  appearance  suggested  the  statesman  of  an 
earlier  time.  It  is  one  of  immortality's  harsh  ironies 
that  a  man  who  was  a  gentleman,  and  who  stood  more 
over  pretty  squarely  for  the  policies  that  it  pleased  him 
to  defend,  should  be  published  to  the  world  in  a  bronze 
effigy  in  his  own  city  as  a  bandy-legged  and  tottering 
tramp,  in  a  frock  coat  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land. 

Joseph  E.  McDonald,  a  Senator  in  Congress,  was 
held  in  affectionate  regard  by  a  wide  constituency.  He 
was  an  independent  and  vigorous  character  who  never 
lost  a  certain  raciness  and  tang.  On  my  first  timid 
venture  into  the  fabled  East  I  rode  with  him  in  a  day- 
coach  from  Washington  to  New  York  on  a  slow  train. 
At  some  point  he  saw  a  peddler  of  fried  oysters  on  a 
station  platform,  alighted  to  make  a  purchase,  and 
ate  his  luncheon  quite  democratically  from  the  paper 
parcel  in  his  car  seat.  He  convoyed  me  across  the  ferry, 
asked  where  I  expected  to  stop,  and  explained  that  he 
did  not  like  the  European  plan;  he  liked,  he  said,  to 
have  'full  swing  at  a  bill  of  fare/ 

I  used  often  to  look  upon  the  towering  form  of 
Daniel  W.  Voorhees,  whom  Sulgrove,  an  Indiana  jour 
nalist  with  a  gift  for  translating  Macaulay  into  Hoo- 
sierese,had  named  'The  Tall  Sycamore  of  the  Wabash.' 
In  a  crowded  hotel  lobby  I  can  still  see  him,  cloaked 
and  silk-hatted,  the  centre  of  the  throng,  and  my  strict 
[  140  ] 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 

upbringing  in  the  antagonistic  political  faith  did  not 
diminish  my  admiration  for  his  eloquence. 

Such  were  some  of  the  characters  who  came  and  went 
in  the  streets  of  our  provincial  capital  in  those  days. 

Ill 

In  discussions  under  captions  similar  to  mine  it  is 
often  maintained  that  railways,  telegraphs,  telephones, 
and  newspapers  are  knitting  us  together,  so  that  soon 
we  shall  all  be  keyed  to  a  metropolitan  pitch.  The 
proof  adduced  in  support  of  this  is  of  the  most  trivial, 
but  it  strikes  me  as  wholly  undesirable  that  we  should 
all  be  ironed  out  and  conventionalized.  In  the  matter 
of  dress,  for  example,  the  women  of  our  town  used  to 
take  their  fashions  from  Godey's  and  Peterson's  via 
Cincinnati;  but  now  that  we  are  only  eighteen  hours 
from  New  York,  with  a  well-traveled  path  from  the 
Wabash  to  Paris,  my  counselors  among  the  elders  de 
clare  that  the  tone  of  our  society  —  if  I  may  use  so 
perilous  a  word  —  has  changed  little  from  our  good  old 
black  alpaca  days.  The  hobble  skirt  receives  prompt 
consideration  in  the  'Main'  street  of  any  town,  and  is 
viewed  with  frank  curiosity,  but  it  is  only  a  one  day's 
wonder.  A  lively  runaway  or  the  barbaric  yawp  of  a 
new  street  fakir  may  dethrone  it  at  any  time. 

New  York  and  Boston  tailors  solicit  custom  among 
us  biennially,  but  nothing  is  so  stubborn  as  our  pro 
vincial  distrust  of  fine  raiment.  I  looked  with  awe,  in 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

my  boyhood,  upon  a  pair  of  mammoth  blue- jeans 
trousers  that  were  flung  high  from  a  flagstaff  in  the 
centre  of  Indianapolis,  in  derision  of  a  Democratic 
candidate  for  governor,  James  D.  Williams,  who  was 
addicted  to  the  wearing  of  jeans.  The  Democrats 
sagaciously  accepted  the  challenge,  made  'honest  blue 
jeans'  the  battle-cry,  and  defeated  Benjamin  Harrison, 
the  '  kid-glove '  candidate  of  the  Republicans.  Harm 
less  demagoguery  this  or  bad  judgment  on  the  part  of 
the  Republicans;  and  yet  I  dare  say  that  if  the  sartorial 
issue  should  again  become  acute  in  our  politics  the 
banner  of  bifurcated  jeans  would  triumph  now  as  then. 
A  Hoosier  statesman  who  to-day  occupies  high  office 
once  explained  to  me  his  refusal  of  sugar  for  his  coffee 
by  remarking  that  he  did  n't  like  to  waste  sugar  that 
way;  he  wanted  to  keep  it  for  his  lettuce.  I  do  not  urge 
sugared  lettuce  as  symbolizing  our  higher  provincial 
ism,  but  mayonnaise  may  be  poison  to  men  who  are 
nevertheless  competent  to  construe  and  administer  law. 
It  is  much  more  significant  that  we  are  all  thinking 
about  the  same  things  at  the  same  time,  than  that  Far- 
nam  Street,  Omaha,  and  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York, 
should  vibrate  to  the  same  shade  of  necktie.  The  dis 
tribution  of  periodicals  is  so  managed  that  California 
and  Maine  cut  the  leaves  of  their  magazines  on  the 
same  day.  Rural  free  delivery  has  hitched  the  farmer's 
wagon  to  the  telegraph  office,  and  you  can't  buy  his 
wife's  butter  now  until  he  has  scanned  the  produce 

i  142 1 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 

market  in  his  newspaper.  This  immediacy  of  contact 
does  not  alter  the  provincial  point  of  view.  New  York 
and  Texas,  Oregon  and  Florida,  will  continue  to  see 
things  at  different  angles,  and  it  is  for  the  good  of  all 
of  us  that  this  is  so.  We  have  no  national  political, 
social,  or  intellectual  centre.  There  is  no  ' season'  in 
New  York,  as  in  London,  during  which  all  persons 
distinguished  in  any  of  these  particulars  meet  on  com 
mon  ground.  Washington  is  our  nearest  approach  to 
such  a  meeting-place,  but  it  offers  only  short  vistas. 
We  of  the  country  visit  Boston  for  the  symphony,  or 
New  York  for  the  opera,  or  Washington  to  view  the 
government  machine  at  work,  but  nowhere  do  inter 
esting  people  representative  of  all  our  ninety  millions 
ever  assemble  under  one  roof.  All  our  capitals  are,  as 
Lowell  put  it,  'fractional,'  and  we  shall  hardly  have  a 
centre  while  our  country  is  so  nearly  a  continent. 

Nothing  in  our  political  system  could  be  wiser  than 
our  dispersion  into  provinces.  Sweep  from  the  map  the 
lines  that  divide  the  states  and  we  should  huddle  like 
sheep  suddenly  deprived  of  the  protection  of  known 
walls  and  flung  upon  the  open  prairie.  State  lines  and 
local  pride  are  in  themselves  a  pledge  of  stability.  The 
elasticity  of  our  system  makes  possible  a  variety  of 
governmental  experiments  by  which  the  whole  coun 
try  profits.  We  should  all  rejoice  that  the  parochial 
mind  is  so  open,  so  eager,  so  earnest,  so  tolerant.  Even 
the  most  buckramed  conservative  on  the  Eastern  coast 

I   143   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

line,  scornful  of  the  political  follies  of  our  far-lying 
provinces,  must  view  with  some  interest  the  dallyings 
of  Oregon  with  the  Referendum,  and  of  Des  Moines 
with  the  Commission  System.  If  Milwaukee  wishes 
to  try  Socialism,  the  rest  of  us  need  not  complain. 
Democracy  will  cease  to  be  democracy  when  all  its 
problems  are  solved  and  everybody  votes  the  same 
ticket. 

States  that  produce  the  most  cranks  are  prodigal  of 
the  corn  that  pays  the  dividends  on  the  railroads  the 
cranks  despise.  Indiana's  amiable  feeling  toward  New 
York  is  not  altered  by  her  sister's  rejection  or  accept 
ance  of  the  direct  primary,  a  benevolent  device  of 
noblest  intention,  under  which,  not  long  ago,  in  my 
own  commonwealth,  my  fellow  citizens  expressed  their 
distrust  of  me  with  unmistakable  emphasis.  It  is  no 
great  matter,  but  in  open  convention  also  I  have  per 
ished  by  the  sword.  Nothing  can  thwart  the  chasten 
ing  hand  of  a  righteous  people. 

All  passes;  humor  alone  is  the  touchstone  of  de 
mocracy.  I  search  the  newspapers  daily  for  tidings  of 
Kansas,  and  in  the  ways  of  Oklahoma  I  find  delight. 
The  Emporia  Gazette  is  quite  as  patriotic  as  the  Spring 
field  Republican  or  the  New  York  Post,  and  to  my  own 
taste,  far  less  depressing.  I  subscribed  for  a  year  to  the 
Charleston  News  and  Courier,  and  was  saddened  by 
the  tameness  of  its  sentiments;  for  I  remember  (it 
must  have  been  in  1884)  the  shrinking  horror  with 

[    144   1 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 

which  I  saw  daily  in  the  Indiana  Republican  organ 
a  quotation  from  Wade  Hampton  to  the  effect  that 
'  these  are  the  same  principles  for  which  Lee  and  Jack 
son  fought  four  years  on  Virginia's  soil.'  Most  of  us 
are  entertained  when  Colonel  Watterson  rises  to  speak 
for  Kentucky  and  invokes  the  star-eyed  goddess. 
When  we  call  the  roll  of  the  states,  if  Malvolio  answer 
for  any,  let  us  suffer  him  in  tolerance  and  rejoice  in  his 
yellow  stockings.  '  God  give  them  wisdom  that  have  it; 
and  those  that  are  fools,  let  them  use  their  talents.' 

Every  community  has  its  dissenters,  protestants, 
kickers,  cranks,  the  more  the  merrier.  I  early  formed  a 
high  resolve  to  strive  for  membership  in  this  execrated 
company.  George  W.  Julian,  —  one  of  the  noblest  of 
Hoosiers,  —  who  had  been  the  Free-Soil  candidate  for 
Vice-President  in  1852,  a  delegate  to  the  first  Republi 
can  convention,  five  times  a  member  of  Congress,  a  sup 
porter  of  Greeley's  candidacy,  and  a  Democrat  in  the 
consulship  of  Cleveland,  was  a  familiar  figure  in  our 
streets.  In  1884  I  was  dusting  law-books  in  an  office 
where  mugwumpery  flourished,  and  where  the  iniqui 
ties  of  the  tariff,  Matthew  Arnold's  theological  opin 
ions,  and  the  writings  of  Darwin,  Spencer,  and  Huxley 
were  discussed  at  intervals  in  the  day's  business. 

IV 

It  is  constantly  complained  that  we  Americans  give 
too  much  time  to  politics,  but  there  could  be  no  safer 

[    145   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

way  of  utilizing  that  extra  drop  of  vital  fluid  which 
Matthew  Arnold  found  in  us.  Epithets  of  opprobrium 
pinned  to  a  Nebraskan  in  1896  were  riveted  upon  a 
citizen  of  New  York  in  1910,  and  who,  then,  was  the 
gentleman?  No  doubt  many  voices  will  cry  in  the  wil 
derness  before  we  reach  the  promised  land.  A  people 
which  has  been  fed  on  the  Bible  is  bound  to  hear  the 
rumble  of  Pharaoh's  chariots.  It  is  in  the  blood  to  feel 
the  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely. 
The  winter  evenings  are  long  on  the  prairies,  and  we 
must  always  be  fashioning  a  crown  for  Caesar  or  re 
hearsing  his  funeral  rites.  No  great  danger  can  ever 
seriously  menace  the  nation  so  long  as  the  remotest 
citizen  clings  to  his  faith  that  he  is  a  part  of  the  govern 
mental  mechanism  and  can  at  any  time  throw  it  out  of 
adjustment  if  it  does  n't  run  to  suit  him.  He  can  go 
into  the  court-house  and  see  the  men  he  helped  to  place 
in  office;  or  if  they  were  chosen  in  spite  of  him,  he  pays 
his  taxes  just  the  same  and  waits  for  another  chance  to 
turn  the  rascals  out. 

Mr.  Bryce  wrote:  'This  tendency  to  acquiescence 
and  submission;  this  sense  of  the  insignificance  of  indi 
vidual  effort,  this  belief  that  the  affairs  of  men  are 
swayed  by  large  forces  whose  movement  may  be  stud 
ied  but  cannot  be  turned,  I  have  ventured  to  call  the 
Fatalism  of  the  Multitude.'  It  is,  I  should  say,  one  of 
the  most  encouraging  phenomena  of  the  score  of  years 
that  have  elapsed  since  Mr.  Bryce's  American  Com- 
[  146  ] 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 

monwealth  appeared,  that  we  have  grown  much  less 
conscious  of  the  crushing  weight  of  the  mass.  It  has 
been  with  something  of  a  child's  surprise  in  his  ulti 
mate  successful  manipulation  of  a  toy  whose  mechan 
ism  has  baffled  him  that  we  have  begun  to  realize  that, 
after  all,  the  individual  counts.  The  pressure  of  the 
mass  will  yet  be  felt,  but  in  spite  of  its  persistence  there 
are  abundant  signs  that  the  individual  is  asserting 
himself  more  and  more,  and  even  the  undeniable  ac 
ceptance  of  collectivist  ideas  in  many  quarters  helps 
to  prove  it.  With  all  our  faults  and  defaults  of  under 
standing,  —  populism,  free  silver,  Coxey's  army,  and 
the  rest  of  it,  —  we  of  the  West  have  not  done  so  badly. 
Be  not  impatient  with  the  young  man  Absalom;  the 
mule  knows  his  way  to  the  oak  tree! 

Elaine  lost  Indiana  in  1884;  Bryan  failed  thrice  to 
carry  it.  The  campaign  of  1910  in  Indiana  was  remark 
able  for  the  stubbornness  of  ' silent'  voters,  who  listened 
respectfully  to  the  orators  but  left  the  managers  of  both 
parties  in  the  air  as  to  their  intentions.  In  the  Indiana 
Democratic  State  Convention  of  1910  a  gentleman  was 
furiously  hissed  for  ten  minutes  amid  a  scene  of  wildest 
tumult;  but  the  cause  he  advocated  won,  and  the 
ticket  nominated  in  that  memorable  convention  suc 
ceeded  in  November.  Within  fifty  years  Ohio,  Indiana, 
and  Illinois  have  sent  to  Washington  seven  presidents, 
elected  for  ten  terms.  Without  discussing  the  value  of 
their  public  services  it  may  be  said  that  it  has  been  an 

I    147    1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

important  demonstration  to  our  Mid-Western  people 
of  the  closeness  of  their  ties  with  the  nation,  that  so 
many  men  of  their  own  soil  have  been  chosen  to  the 
seat  of  the  presidents;  and  it  is  creditable  to  Maine  and 
California  that  they  have  cheerfully  acquiesced.  In 
Lincoln  the  provincial  American  most  nobly  asserted 
himself,  and  any  discussion  of  the  value  of  provincial 
life  and  character  in  our  politics  may  well  begin  and 
end  in  him.  We  have  seen  verily  that 

Fishers  and  choppers  and  ploughmen 
Shall  constitute  a  state. 

Whitman,  addressing  Grant  on  his  return  from  his 
world's  tour,  declared  that  it  was  not  that  the  hero  had 
walked  'with  kings  with  even  pace  the  round  world's 
promenade ' ; 

But  that  in  foreign  lands,  in  all  thy  walks  with  kings, 
Those  prairie  sovereigns  of  the  West,  Kansas,  Missouri,  Illinois, 
Ohio's,  Indiana's  millions,  comrades,  farmers,  soldiers,  all  to  the 

front, 
Invisibly  with  thee  walking  with  kings  with  even  pace  the  round 

world's  promenade, 
Were  all  so  justified. 

What  we  miss  and  what  we  lack  who  live  in  the  prov 
inces  seem  to  me  of  little  weight  in  the  scale  against 
our  compensations.  We  slouch,  —  we  are  deficient  in 
the  graces,  we  are  prone  to  boast,  and  we  lack  in  those 
fine  reticences  that  mark  the  cultivated  citizen  of  the 
metropolis.  We  like  to  talk,  and  we  talk  our  problems 
out  to  a  finish.  Our  commonwealths  rose  in  the  ashes 
[  148  ] 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 

of  the  hunter's  campfires,  and  we  are  all  a  great  neigh 
borhood,  united  in  a  common  understanding  of  what 
democracy  is,  and  animated  by  ideals  of  what  we  want 
it  to  be.  That  saving  humor  which  is  a  philosophy  of 
life  flourishes  amid  the  tall  corn.  We  are  old  enough 
now  —  we  of  the  West  —  to  have  built  up  in  ourselves 
a  species  of  wisdom,  founded  upon  experience,  which  is 
a  part  of  the  continuing  unwritten  law  of  democracy. 
We  are  less  likely  these  days  to  '  wobble  right '  than  we 
are  to  stand  fast  or  march  forward  like  an  army  with 
banners. 

We  provincials  are  immensely  curious.  Art,  music, 
literature,  politics  —  nothing  that  is  of  contemporane 
ous  human  interest  is  alien  to  us.  If  these  things  don't 
come  to  us  we  go  to  them.  We  are  more  truly  repre 
sentative  of  the  American  ideal  than  our  metropolitan 
cousins,  because  (here  I  lay  my  head  upon  the  block) 
we  know  more  about,  oh,  so  many  things!  We  know 
vastly  more  about  the  United  States,  for  one  thing. 
We  know  what  New  York  is  thinking  before  New  York 
herself  knows  it,  because  we  visit  the  metropolis  to 
find  out.  Sleeping-cars  have  no  terrors  for  us,  and  a 
man  who  has  never  been  west  of  Philadelphia  seems  to 
us  a  singularly  benighted  being.  Those  of  our  Western 
school-teachers  who  don't  see  Europe  for  three  hun 
dred  dollars  every  summer  get  at  least  as  far  east  as 
Concord,  to  be  photographed  by  the  rude  bridge  that 
arched  the  flood. 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

That  fine  austerity,  which  the  voluble  Westerner 
finds  so  smothering  on  the  Boston  and  New  York 
express,  is  lost  utterly  at  Pittsburg.  From  gentlemen 
cruising  in  day-coaches  —  rude  wights  who  advertise 
their  personal  sanitation  and  literacy  by  the  tooth 
brush  and  fountain-pen  planted  sturdily  in  their  upper 
left-hand  waistcoat  pockets  —  one  may  learn  the  most 
prodigious  facts  and  the  philosophy  thereof.  '  Sit  over, 
brother;  there's  hell  to  pay  in  the  Balkans/  remarks 
the  gentleman  who  boarded  the  inter-urban  at  Peru 
or  Connersville,  and  who  would  just  as  lief  discuss  the 
papacy  or  child-labor,  if  revolutions  are  not  to  your 
liking. 

In  Boston  a  lady  once  expressed  her  surprise  that 
I  should  be  hastening  home  for  Thanksgiving  Day. 
This,  she  thought,  was  a  New  England  festival.  More 
recently  I  was  asked  by  a  Bostonian  if  I  had  ever 
heard  of  Paul  Revere.  Nothing  is  more  delightful  in 
us,  I  think,  than  our  meekness  before  instruction.  We 
strive  to  please;  all  we  ask  is  'to  be  shown.' 

Our  greatest  gain  is  in  leisure  and  the  opportunity 
to  ponder  and  brood.  In  all  these  thousands  of  country 
towns  live  alert  and  shrewd  students  of  affairs.  Where 
your  New  Yorker  scans  headlines  as  he  ' commutes' 
homeward,  the  villager  reaches  his  own  fireside  without 
being  shot  through  a  tube,  and  sits  down  and  reads  his 
newspaper  thoroughly.  When  he  repairs  to  the  drug 
store  to  abuse  or  praise  the  powers  that  be,  his  wife 

[   150  ] 


THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN 

reads  the  paper,  too.  A  United  States  Senator  from  a 
Middle  Western  State,  making  a  campaign  for  renom- 
ination  preliminary  to  the  primaries,  warned  the  peo 
ple  in  rural  communities  against  the  newspaper  and 
periodical  press  with  its  scandals  and  heresies.  'Wait 
quietly  by  your  firesides,  undisturbed  by  these  false 
teachings,'  he  said  in  effect;  'then  go  to  your  primaries 
and  vote  as  you  have  always  voted/  His  opponent 
won  by  thirty  thousand,  —  the  amiable  answer  of  the 
little  red  schoolhouse. 


A  few  days  ago  I  visited  again  my  native  town.  On 
the  slope  where  I  played  as  a  child  I  listened  in  vain 
for  the  mourning  bugle ;  but  on  the  college  campus  a 
bronze  tablet  commemorative  of  those  sons  of  Wabash 
who  had  fought  in  the  mighty  war  quickened  the  old 
impressions.  The  college  buildings  wear  a  look  of  age 
in  the  gathering  dusk. 

Coldly,  sadly  descends 

The  autumn  evening.   The  field 

Strewn  with  its  dank  yellow  drifts 

Of  withered  leaves,  and  the  elms, 

Fade  into  dimness  apace, 

Silent ;  hardly  a  shout 

From  a  few  boys  late  at  their  play! 

Brave  airs  of  cityhood  are  apparent  in  the  town, 
with  its  paved  streets,  fine  hall  and  library;  and  every 
where  are  wholesome  life,  comfort,  and  peace.  The 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

train  is  soon  hurrying  through  gray  fields  and  dark 
woodlands.  Farmhouses  are  disclosed  by  glowing 
panes;  lanterns  flash  fitfully  where  farmers  are  making 
all  fast  for  the  night.  The  city  is  reached  as  great  fac 
tories  are  discharging  their  laborers,  and  I  pass  from 
the  station  into  a  hurrying  throng  homeward  bound. 
Against  the  sky  looms  the  dome  of  the  capitol;  the  tall 
shaft  of  the  soldiers'  monument  rises  ahead  of  me  down 
the  long  street  and  vanishes  starward.  Here  where 
forests  stood  seventy-five  years  ago,  in  a  state  that  has 
not  yet  attained  its  centenary,  is  realized  much  that 
man  has  sought  through  all  the  ages, — order,  justice, 
and  mercy,  kindliness  and  good  cheer.  What  we  lack 
we  seek,  and  what  we  strive  for  we  shall  gain.  And  of 
such  is  the  kingdom  of  democracy. 


Our  Lady  Poverty 

By  Agnes  Repplier 

I 

THE  last  people  to  read  the  literature  of  poverty  are 
the  poor,  and  this  fact  may  be  cited  as  one  of  the  ame 
liorations  of  their  lot.  If  they  were  assured  day  after 
day  that  they  were  degraded  and  enslaved,  it  would  be 
a  trifle  hard  for  them  to  cherish  their  respectability,  and 
enjoy  their  freedom.  If  their  misery  were  dinned  into 
their  ears,  they  would  naturally  cease  being  cheerful. 
If  they  were  convinced  that  tears  are  their  portion, 
they  would  no  longer  have  the  temerity  to  laugh.  In 
deed  their  mirth  is  frankly  repellent  to  the  dolorous 
writers  of  to-day. 

A  burst  of  hollow  laughter  from  a  hopeless  heart 
is  permitted  as  seemly  and  in  character;  even  the  poet 
of  the  slums  grants  this  outlet  for  emotion;  but  the 
rude  sounds  which  denote  hilarity  disturb  the  sympa 
thetic  soul.  One  agitated  lady  describes  with  shrinking 
horror  the  merriment  of  the  scrub-women  going  to 
their  labor.  All  the  dignity,  all  the  sacredness  of  wo 
manhood  are  defiled  by  these  poor  old  creatures  tramp- 

[  153 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

ing  through  the  chill  dawn;  and  yet,  and  yet,  —  oh, 
mockery  of  nobler  aspirations!  —  ' The'  scrub-women 
were  going  to  work,  and  they  went  laughing ! ' 

The  dismalness  of  serious  writers,  especially  if  hu 
manity  be  their  theme,  is  steeping  us  in  gloom.  The 
obsession  of  sorrow  seems  the  most  reasonable  of  all 
obsessions,  because  facts  can  be  crowded  upon  facts 
(to  the  general  exclusion  of  truth)  by  way  of  argument 
and  illustration.  And  should  facts  fail,  there  are  bitter 
generalizations  which  shroud  us  like  a  pall. 

Behind  all  music  we  can  hear 
The  insistent  note  of  hunger-fear; 
Beyond  all  beauty  we  can  see 
The  land's  defenseless  misery. 

Mr.  Percy  MacKaye  in  his  preface  to  that  treatise  on 
eugenics  which  he  has  christened  To-Morrow,  and 
humorously  designated  as  a  play,  makes  this  inspiriting 
statement:  'Our  world  is  hideously  unhappy,  and  the 
insufferable  sense  of  that  unhappiness  is  the  consecra 
tion  of  modern  leaders  in  art.  Realism  is  splendidly 
their  incentive.' 

This  opens  up  a  cheering  vista  for  the  public.  If  the 
dramatists  of  the  near  future  are  to  have  no  finer  con 
secration  than  an  insufferable  sense  of  unhappiness,  we 
must  turn  for  amusement  to  lectures  and  organ  recitals. 
If  novelists  and  poets  are  to  be  hallowed  by  grief,  there 
will  be  nothing  left  for  light-hearted  readers  save  the 
study  of  political  economy,  erstwhile  called  the  dismal 

i  154 1 


OUR  LADY  POVERTY 

science,'  but  now,  by  comparison,  gay.  No  artist  yet 
was  ever  born  of  an  insufferable  sense  of  unhappiness. 
No  leader  and  helper  of  men  was  ever  bedewed  with 
tears.  The  world  is  old,  and  the  world  is  wide.  Of 
what  use  are  we  in  its  tumultuous  life,  if  we  do  not 
know  its  joys,  its  griefs,  its  high  emotions,  its  call  to 
courage,  and  the  echo  of  the  laughter  of  the  ages? 

Perhaps  the  only  literature  of  poverty  (I  use  the 
word  'literature'  in  a  purely  courteous  sense)  which 
was  ever  written  for  the  poor  is  that  amazing  issue  of 
tracts,  Village  Politics,  Tales  for  the  Common  People, 
and  scores  of  similar  productions,  which  a  hundred 
years  ago  were  let  loose  upon  rural  England.  The 
moral  in  all  of  them  is  the  same,  and  is  expressed 
with  engaging  simplicity:  'Don't  give  trouble  to  people 
better  off  than  yourself.'  The  fact  that  many  of 
these  tracts  had  a  prodigious  sale  points  to  their  dis 
tribution  —  by  the  rich  —  in  quarters  where  it  was 
thought  that  they  would  do  most  good.  They  were 
probably  read  in  the  same  spirit  as  that  in  which  a 
Sunday-school  library  was  read  by  two  small  and 
unregenerate  boys  of  my  acquaintance,  who  worked 
through  whole  shelves  at  a  fixed  rate,  ten  cents  for 
a  short  book,  twenty-five  cents  for  a  long  one,  —  the 
money  paid  by  a  pious  grandmother,  and  a  point  of 
honor  not  to  skip. 

The  smug  complacency  of  Hannah  More  and  her  sis 
terhood  was  rudely  disturbed  by  Ebenezer  Elliott,  who 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

published  his  Corn-Law  Rhymer,  with  its  profound  pity 
and  its  somewhat  impotent  wrath,  in  1831.  England 
woke  up  to  the  disturbing  conviction  that  men  and 
women  were  starving,  —  always  a  disagreeable  thing 
to  contemplate,  —  and  the  Corn  Laws  were  repealed; 
but  the  ' Rhymes'  were  probably  as  little  known  to  the 
laborer  of  1831  as  was  Piers  Plowman  to  the  laborer  of 
1392.  Langland  —  to  whom  partial  critics  have  for 
five  hundred  years  ascribed  this  great  poem  of  discon 
tent  —  was  keenly  alive  to  the  value  of  husbandry  as  a 
theme;  and  his  ploughman  came  in  time  to  be  recog 
nized  as  the  people's  suffering  representative;  but  the 
poet,  after  the  fashion  of  poets,  wrote  for  'lettered 
clerks,'  of  which  class  he  was  a  shining  example,  his 
praiseworthy  purpose  in  life  being  to  avoid  '  common 
men's  work.'  In  the  last  century,  Les  Miser ables  was 
called  the  'Epic  of  the  Poor';  but  its  readers  were,  for 
the  most  part,  as  comfortably  remote  from  poverty  as 
Victor  Hugo  himself,  and  as  alive  to  the  advantages 
of  wealth. 

In  this  age  of  print,  the  literature  of  poverty  has 
swollen  to  an  enormous  bulk.  Statistical  books,  ex 
plicit  and  contradictory.  Hopeful  books  by  social 
workers  who  see  salvation  in  girls'  clubs  and  refined 
dancing.  Hopeless  books  by  other  social  workers  who 
believe  —  or,  at  least,  who  say  —  that  the  employed 
are  enslaved  by  the  employer,  and  that  women  and 
children  are  the  prey  of  men.  Highly  colored  books  by 


OUR  LADY  POVERTY 

adventurous  young  journalists  who  have  masqueraded 
(for  copy's  sake)  as  mill  and  factory  hands.  Gray 
books  by  casual  observers  who  are  paralyzed  by  the 
mere  sight  of  a  slum.  Furious  books  by  rabid  socialists 
who  hold  that  the  poor  will  never  be  uplifted  while 
there  is  left  in  the  world  a  man  rich  enough  to  pay 
them  wages.  Imaginative  books  by  poets  and  novel 
ists  who  deal  in  realism  to  the  exclusion  of  reality.  All 
this  profusion  and  confusion  of  matter  is  thrust  upon 
us  month  after  month,  while  the  working-man  reads 
his  newspaper,  and  the  working-girl  reads  A  Coronet 
of  Shame,  or  Lost  in  Fate's  Fearful  Abyss. 

It  was  Mr.  George  Gissing  who,  in  his  studies  of  the 
poor,  first  made  popular  the  invective  style;  who 
hurled  at  London  such  epithets  as  'pest-stricken/  'city 
of  the  damned/  '  intimacies  of  abomination/  t utmost 
limits  of  dread/  —  phrases  which  have  been  faithfully 
copied  by  shuddering  defamers  of  New  York  and 
Chicago.  Mr.  John  Burns,  for  example,  after  a  brief 
visit  to  the  United  States,  said  that  Chicago  was  a 
pocket  edition  of  hell;  and  subsequently,  without,  we 
hope,  any  personal  experience  to  back  him,  said  that 
hell  was  a  pocket  edition  of  Chicago. 

Americans  have  borrowed  these  flowers  of  speech 
from  England,  and  have  invaded  her  territory.  Was  it 
because  he  could  find  no  poverty  at  home  worthy  of  his 
strenuous  pen,  that  Mr.  Jack  London  crossed  the  sea  to 
write  up  the  streets  of  Whitechapel  and  Spitalfields, 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

already  so  abundantly  exploited  by  English  authors? 
Was  there  anything  he  could  add  to  the  dark  pictures  of 
Mr.  Gissing,  or  to  the  more  convincing  studies  of  Mr. 
Arthur  Morrison,  who  has  lit  up  the  gloom  with  a  grim 
humor,  not  very  mirthful,  but  acutely  and  unimpeach- 
ably  human?  Mr.  Gissing's  poor  have  money  for  noth 
ing  but  beer  (it  would  be  a  bold  writer  who  denied  his 
starvelings  beer) ;  but  Mr.  Morrison  sees  his  way  occa 
sionally  to  bacon,  and  tea,  and  tinned  beef,  and  even, 
at  rare  intervals,  to  a  pompous  funeral,  provided  that 
the  money  for  mutes  can  be  saved  from  the  sick  man's 
diet.  He  is  the  legitimate  successor  of  Dickens,  and 
Dickens  knew  his  field  from  experience  rather  than 
from  observation.  The  lighthouse-keeper  sees  the 
storm,  but  the  cabin  boy  feels  it. 

In  the  annals  of  poverty  there  are  few  pages  more 
poignant  than  the  one  which  describes  the  sick  child, 
Charles  Dickens,  taken  home  from  work  by  a  kind- 
hearted  lad,  and  his  shame  lest  this  boy  should  learn 
that  'home '  for  him  meant  the  debtors'  prison.  In  vain 
he  tried  to  get  rid  of  his  conductor,  Bob  Fagin  by  name, 
protesting  that  he  was  well  enough  to  walk  alone. 
Bob  knew  he  was  not,  and  stuck  to  his  side.  Together 
they  pushed  along  until  little  Charles  was  fainting  with 
weakness  and  fatigue.  Then  in  desperation  he  pre 
tended  that  he  lived  in  a  decent  house  near  Southwark 
bridge,  and  darted  up  the  steps  with  a  joyous  air  of 
being  at  last  in  haven,  only  to  creep  down  again  when 

[  158 1 


OUR  LADY  POVERTY 

Bob's  back  was  turned,  and  drag  his  slow  steps  to  the 
Marshalsea. 

Out  of  this  dismal  and  precocious  experience  sprang 
two  results,  —  a  passionate  resolve  not  to  be  what  cir 
cumstances  were  conspiring  to  make  him,  and  an  in 
sight  into  the  uncalculating  habits  which  deepen  and 
soften  poverty.  Dickens  —  once  free  of  institutions 
-  wrote  of  the  poor,  even  of  the  London  poor,  with 
amazing  geniality;  but  it  cannot  be  denied  that  his  in 
fallible  recipe  for  brightening  up  the  scene  is  the  timely 
introduction  of  a  pot  of  porter,  or  a  pitcher  of  steaming 
flip.  If  we  try  to  think  of  him  writing  in  a  prohibition 
state,  we  shall  realize  that  he  owed  as  much  to  beer  and 
punch  as  ever  Horace  did  to  wine.  Imagination  fails  to 
grasp  either  of  them  in  the  role  of  a  water-drinker. 
The  poor  of  Dickens  are  a  sturdy  lot,  but  they  are 
jovial  only  in  their  cups.  His  wholesome  hatred  of  in 
stitutions  would  have  been  intensified  could  he  have 
lived  to  hear  the  Camberwell  Board  of  Guardians  de 
cide  —  at  the  instigation,  alas!  of  a  woman  member— 
that  the  single  mug  of  beer  which  for  years  had  solaced 
the  inmates  of  Cambenvell  Workhouse  on  Christmas 
Day,  should  hereafter  be  abolished  as  an  immoral  in 
dulgence.  The  generous  ghost  of  Dickens  must  have 
groaned  in  Heaven  over  that  melancholy  and  mean 
reform. 


[  159 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

ii 

'To  achieve  what  man  may,  to  bear  what  man  must,' 
—  since  the  struggle  for  life  began,  this  has  been  the 
purpose  and  the  pride  of  humanity.  We  Americans 
were  trained  from  childhood  to  believe  that  while,  in 
the  final  issue,  each  of  us  must  answer  for  himself,  the 
country  —  our  country  —  gave  to  all  scope  for  effort, 
and  chance  of  victory. 

This  was  not  mere  Fourth  of  July  oratory,  nor 
the  fervent  utterances  of  presidential  campaigns.  It 
was  a  serious  and  a  sober  faith,  based  upon  some 
knowledge  of  the  Constitution,  some  inheritance  of 
experience,  some  element  of  democracy  which  fla 
vored  our  early  lives.  The  mere  sense  of  space  carried 
with  it  a  profound  and  eager  hopefulness.  Those 
of  us  whose  fathers  or  whose  grandfathers  had  crossed 
the  sea  to  escape  from  more  cramping  conditions, 
felt  this  atmosphere  of  independence  keenly  and  con 
sciously.  Those  of  us  whose  fathers  or  whose  grand 
fathers  brought  up  their  families  in  an  alien  land  with 
decent  industry  and  thrift,  were  aware,  even  in  child 
hood,  that  the  Republic  had  fostered  our  growth. 
Therefore  am  I  pardonably  bewildered  when  I  hear 
American  workmen  called  ' slaves'  and  'prisoners  of 
starvation/  and  American  employers  called  'base  op 
pressors/  and '  despots  on  their  thrones.'  This  fantastic 
nomenclature  seems  immeasurably  removed  from  the 
<  [  160  ] 


OUR  LADY  POVERTY 

temperate  language  in  which  were  formulated  the  tem 
perate  convictions  of  my  youth. 

The  assumption  that  the  American  laborer  to-day 
stands  where  the  French  laborer  stood  before  the  Rev 
olution,  where  the  English  laborer  stood  before  the 
passing  of  the  first  Reform  Bill  and  the  repeal  of  the 
Corn  Laws,  shows  a  lack  of  historical  perspective.  The 
assumption  that  all  strikes  represent  an  agonized  pro 
test  against  tyranny,  an  agonized  appeal  from  injus 
tice,  is  a  perversion  of  truth.  The  assumption  that 
child-labor  in  the  United  States  is  the  blot  upon  civil 
ization  that  it  was  in  England  seventy  years  ago,  denies 
the  duty  of  comparison.  If  the  people  who  write  verses 
about  'Labor  Crucified'  would  make  a  table  of  the 
wages  paid  to  skilled  and  unskilled  workmen,  from  the 
Chicago  carpenter  to  the  Philadelphia  street-cleaner, 
they  might  sing  in  a  more  cheerful  strain.  If  the  people 
who  to-day  echo  the  bitterest  lines  of  Mrs.  Browning's 
'Cry  of  the  Children*  would  ascertain  and  bear  in 
mind  the  proportion  of  little  boys  and  girls  who  are 
going  to  school  in  the  United  States,  how  many  years 
they  average,  and  how  much  the  country  pays  for  their 
education,  they  might  spare  us  some  violent  invectives. 
Even  Mr.  Robert  Hunter  permits  himself  the  use  of 
the  word  'cannibalism'  when  speaking  of  child- work 
ers,  and  this  in  the  face  of  legislation  which  every  year 
extends  its  area,  and  grows  more  stringently  protec 
tive. 

[   161    ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  loose  writing  on  this  impor 
tant  theme,  and  it  stands  in  the  way  of  amendment.  It 
is  assumed  that  parents  are  seldom  or  never  to  blame 
for  sending  their  children  to  work.  The  mill-owner 
snatches  them  from  their  mothers'  arms.  It  is  assumed 
that  the  child  who  works  would  —  if  there  were  no 
employment  for  him  —  be  at  school,  or  at  play,  happy, 
healthy,  and  well-nourished.  No  one  even  alludes  to 
the  cruel  poverty  of  the  South,  which,  for  generations 
before  the  cotton  mills  were  built,  stunted  the  growth 
and  sapped  the  strength  of  Southern  children.  They 
lived,  we  are  told,  a  'wholesome  rural  life/  and  the 
greed  of  the  capitalist  is  alone  responsible  for  the 
blighting  of  their  pastoral  paradise. 

There  is  no  need  to  write  like  this.  The  question  at 
issue  is  a  grave  and  simple  one.  It  makes  its  appeal  to 
the  conscience  and  the  sense  of  the  nation,  and  every 
year  sees  some  measure  of  reform.  If  a  baby  girl  in  an 
American  city,  a  child  of  three  or  five,  is  forced  to  toil 
all  day,  winding  artificial  daisy  stems  at  a  penny  a 
hundred,  let  the  name  of  her  employer  and  the  place  of 
her  employment  be  made  public.  The  Society  for  the 
Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Children  can  deal  peremptorily 
with  such  a  case.  It  is  not  even  the  privilege  of  parents 
to  work  a  little  child  so  relentlessly.  If  the  pathetic 
story  is  not  supported  by  facts,  or  is  not  in  accord  with 
facts,  it  is  neither  wise  nor  well  to  publish  it.  Why 
should  a  sober  periodical,  like  the  Child-Labor  Bulletin, 

162 


OUR  LADY  POVERTY 

devoted  to  a  good  cause,  print  a  poem  called  'A  Song 
of  the  Factory/  in  which  happy  children  are  portrayed 
as  sporting  in  beautiful  meadows, 

Idling  among  the  feathery  blooms, 

until  a  sort  of  ogre  comes  along,  builds  a  factory,  drives 
the  poor  innocents  into  it,  and  compels  them  to 

Crouch  all  day  by  the  spindles,  wizened,  and  wan,  and  old, 

earning  'his  bread.'  Apparently  —  and  this  is  the  gist 
of  the  matter  —  they  have  no  need  to  earn  bread  for 
themselves.  The  accompanying  illustrations  show  us 
on  one  page  a  prettily  dressed  little  girl  sitting  daisy- 
crowned  in  the  fields,  and,  on  the  other  page,  a  ragged 
and  tattered  little  girl  with  a  shawl  over  her  head  going 
to  the  work  which  has  but  too  plainly  impoverished 
her.  Hansel  and  Gretel  are  not  more  distinctly  within 
the  boundaries  of  fairyland  than  are  these  entrapped 
children.  The  witch  is  not  more  distinctly  a  child- 
eating  hobgoblin  than  is  the  capitalist  of  such  fervid 
song. 

The  sickly  and  unreasoning  tone  which  pervades 
the  literature  of  poverty  is  demoralizing.  There  is 
nothing  helpful  in  the  assumption  that  effort  is  vain, 
resistance  hopeless,  and  the  world  monstrously  cruel. 
The  dominating  element  of  such  prose  and  verse  is  a 
bleak  despair,  unmanly,  unwomanly,  inhuman.  Out 
of  the  abundance  of  material  before  me,  I  quote  a  single 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

poem,  published  in  the  New  York  Call,  reprinted  in 
the  Survey,  and  christened  mockingly,  — 

THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

They  got  y',  kid,  they  got  y',  just  like  I  said  they  would; 

You  tried  to  walk  the  narrow  path, 

You  tried,  and  got  an  awful  laugh; 
And  laughs  are  all  y'  did  get,  kid,  they  got  y'  good! 

They  never  saw  the  little  kid,  —  the  kid  I  used  to  know, 

The  little  bare-legged  girl  back  home, 

The  little  girl  that  played  alone, 
They  don't  know  half  the  things  I  know,  kid;  ain't  it  so? 

They  got  y',  kid,  they  got  y',  —  you  know  they  got  y'  right; 

They  waited  till  they  saw  y'  limp, 

Then  introduced  y'  to  the  pimp, 
Ah,  you  were  down  then,  kid,  and  could  n't  fight. 

I  guess  you  know  what  some  don't  know,  and  others  know 
damn  well, 

That  sweatshops  don't  grow  angel's  wings, 

That  working  girls  is  easy  things, 
And  poverty 's  the  straightest  road  to  hell. 

And  this  is  what  our  Lady  Poverty,  bride  of  Saint 
Francis,  friend  of  all  holiness,  counsel  of  all  perfection, 
has  come  to  mean  in  these  years  of  grace !  She  who  was 
once  the  surest  guide  to  Heaven  now  leads  her  chosen 
ones  to  Hell.  She  who  was  once  beloved  by  the  devout 
and  honored  by  the  just,  is  now  a  scandal  and  a  shame, 
the  friend  of  harlotry,  the  instigator  of  crime.  Even  a 
true  poet  like  Francis  Thompson  laments  that  the  pov- 
[  164  ] 


OUR  LADY  POVERTY 

erty  exalted  by  Christ  should  have  been  cast  down 
from  her  high  caste. 

All  men  did  admire 

Her  modest  looks,  her  ragged,  sweet  attire 
In  which  the  ribboned  shoe  could  not  compete 
With  her  clear  simple  feet. 
But  Satan,  envying  Thee  thy  one  ewe-lamb, 
With  Wealth,  World's  Beauty  and  Felicity 
Was  not  content,  till  last  unthought-of  she 
Was  his  to  damn. 
Thine  ingrate,  ignorant  lamb 

He  won  from  Thee;  kissed,  spurned,  and  made  of  her 
This  thing  which  qualms  the  air, 
Vile,  terrible,  old, 
Whereat  the  red  blood  of  the  Day  runs  cold. 

These  are  the  words  of  one  to  whom  the  London  gut 
ters  were  for  years  a  home,  and  whose  strengthless  man 
hood  lay  inert  under  a  burden  of  pain  he  had  no  cour 
age  to  lift.  Yet  never  was  sufferer  more  shone  upon  by 
kindness  than  was  Francis  Thompson ;  never  was  man 
better  fitted  to  testify  to  the  goodness  of  a  bad  world. 
And  he  did  bear  such  brave  testimony  again  and  yet 
again,  so  that  the  bulk  of  his  verse  is  alien  to  pessim 
ism, —  'every  stanza  an  act  of  faith,  and  a  declaration 
of  good  will.' 

The  demoralizing  quality  of  such  stuff  as  'The 
Straight  Road/  which  is  forced  upon  us  with  increas 
ing  pertinacity,  is  its  denial  of  kindness,  its  evading  of 
obligation.  Temptation  is  not  only  the  occasion,  but 
the  justifier  of  sin,  —  a  point  of  view  which  plays  havoc 

[  165 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

with  our  common  standard  of  morality.  When  a  vicious 
young  millionaire  like  Harry  Thaw  runs  amuck  through 
his  crude  and  evil  environment,  we  sigh  and  say,  '  His 
money  ruined  him.'  When  a  poor  young  woman  aban 
dons  her  weary  frugalities  for  the  questionable  pleas 
ures  of  prostitution,  we  sigh  and  say,  'Her  poverty 
drove  her  to  it.'  Where  then  does  goodness  dwell? 
What  part  does  honor  play?  The  Sieur  de  Joinville,  in 
his  memoirs  of  Saint  Louis,  tells  us  that  a  certain  man, 
sore  beset  by  the  pressure  of  temptation,  sought  coun 
sel  from  the  Bishop  of  Paris,  'whose  Christian  name 
was  William/  And  this  wise  William  of  Paris  said  to 
him:  'The  castle  of  MontPhery  stands  in  the  safe  heart 
of  France,  and  no  invading  hosts  assail  it.  But  the 
castle  of  La  Rochelle  in  Poitou  stands  on  the  line  of 
battle.  Day  and  night  it  must  be  guarded  from  assault, 
and  it  has  suffered  grievously.  Which  gentleman, 
think  you,  the  King  holds  high  in  favor,  the  governor 
of  Montl'hery,  or  the  governor  of  La  Rochelle?  The 
post  of  danger  is  the  post  of  glory,  and  he  who  is  sorely 
wounded  in  the  combat  is  honored  by  God  and  man.' 

Ill 

There  are  those  whose  ardor  for  humanity  finds  a 
congenial  vent  in  the  denouncement  of  all  they  see 
about  them, — all  the  institutions  of  their  country,  all 
the  laborious  processes  of  civilization.  Sociologists  of 
this  type  speak  and  write  of  an  ordinary  American  city 
[  166  ] 


OUR  LADY  POVERTY 

in  terms  which  Dante  might  have  envied.  Nobody,  it 
would  seem,  is  ever  cured  in  its  hospitals;  they  only  lie 
on  'cots  of  pain.'  Nobody  is  ever  reformed  in  its  re 
formatories.  Nobody  is  reared  to  decency  in  its  asy 
lums.  Nobody  is  —  apparently  —  educated  in  its 
schools.  Its  industries  are  ravenous  beasts,  sucking  the 
blood  of  workers;  its  poor  are  'shackled  slaves';  its 
humble  homes  are  'dens.'  I  have  heard  a  philan 
thropic  lecturer  talk  to  the  poor  upon  the  housing  of 
the  poor.  She  threw  on  a  screen  enlarged  photographs 
of  narrow  streets  and  tenement  rooms  which  looked  to 
me  unspeakably  dreary,  but  which  the  working-wo 
men  around  me  gazed  at  in  mild  perplexity,  seeing 
nothing  amiss,  and  wondering  that  their  residences 
should  be  held  up  to  this  unseemly  scorn.  They  did  not 
do  as  did  the  angry  Italians  of  a  New  Jersey  town, 
—  smash  the  invidious  pictures  which  shamed  their 
homes;  they  sat  in  stolid  silence  and  discomfiture, 
dimly  conscious  of  an  unresented  insult. 

It  is  hard  to  grasp  a  point  of  view  immeasurably  re 
mote  from  our  own;  but  what  can  we  understand  of 
other  lives  unless  we  do  this  difficult  thing?  Old 
women  in  the  out- wards  of  an  almshouse  (of  all  earthly 
abodes  the  saddest)  have  boasted  to  me  that  their 
floors  were  scrubbed  every  other  day,  and  their  sheets 
changed  once  a  week;  and  this  braggart  humor  stunned 
my  senses  until  I  called  to  mind  the  floor  and  the  bed 
of  one  of  them  (an  extraordinarily  dirty  old  woman) 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

whom  I  had  known  in  other  years.  Last  winter  the 
workers  in  a  settlement  house  were  called  upon  at  mid 
night  to  succor  a  woman  who  had  been  kicked  and 
beaten  into  unconsciousness  by  a  drunken  husband. 
The  poor  creature  was  all  one  bleeding  bruise.  When 
she  was  revived,  her  dim  eyes  traveled  over  the  horri 
fied  faces  about  her.  'It's  pretty  bad/  she  gasped, 
'it's  mighty  bad';  and  then,  with  another  look  at  the 
group  of  protecting,  pitying  spinsters,  '  but  it  must  be 
something  fierce  to  be  an  old  maid.' 

The  city  is  a  good  friend  to  the  poor.  It  gives  them 
day  nurseries  for  their  babies,  kindergartens  for  their 
little  children,  schools  for  their  boys  and  girls,  play 
grounds,  swimming-pools,  recreation  piers,  reading- 
rooms,  libraries,  churches,  clubs,  hospitals,  cheap 
amusements,  open-air  concerts,  employment  agencies, 
the  companionship  of  their  kind,  and  the  chance  of  a 
friend  at  need.  In  return,  the  poor  love  the  city,  and 
cling  to  it  with  reasonable  but  somewhat  stifling  affec 
tion.  They  know  that  the  hardest  thing  in  life  is  to  be 
isolated,  —  'unrelated,'  to  use  Carlyle's  apt  word;  and 
they  escape  this  fate  by  eschewing  the  much-lauded 
fields  and  farms.  They  know  also  that  in  the  country 
they  must  stand  or  fall  by  their  own  unaided  efforts, 
they  must  learn  the  hard  lesson  of  self-reliance.  Many 
of  them  propose  to  live,  as  did  the  astute  author  of 
Piers  Plowman,  'in  the  town,  and  on  the  town  as  well.' 
Moreover,  pleasure  means  as  much  to  them  as  it  does 
[  168  ] 


OUR  LADY  POVERTY 

to  the  rest  of  us.  We  hardly  needed  Mr.  Chesterton 
to  tell  us  that  a  visit  to  a  corner  saloon  may  be  just  as 
exciting  an  event  to  a  tenement-house  dweller,  as  a 
dinner  at  a  gold-and-marble  hotel  is  to  the  average 
middle-class  citizen;  and  that  the  tenement-house 
dweller  may  be  just  as  moderate  in  his  potations:  - 

Merrily  taking  twopenny  rum,  and  cheese  with  a  pocket  knife. 

Poverty,  we  are  assured,  is  an  'error/  like  ill-health 
and  crime.  It  is  an  anachronism  in  civilization,  a  stain 
upon  a  wisely  governed  land.  But  into  our  country 
which,  after  a  human  fashion,  is  both  wise  and  foolish, 
pours  the  poverty  of  Europe.  Hundreds  of  thousands 
of  immigrants  with  but  a  few  dollars  between  them  and 
want;  with  scant  equipment,  physical  or  mental,  for  the 
struggle  of  life;  with  an  inheritance  of  feebleness  from 
ill-nourished  generations  before  them,  —  this  is  the 
problem  which  the  United  States  faces  courageously, 
and  solves  as  best  she  can.  What  she  cannot  do  is 
miraculously  to  convert  poverty  into  plenty,  —  cer 
tainly  not  before  the  next  year  doubles,  and  the  third 
year  trebles  the  miracle-seeking  multitude.  She  can 
not  properly  house  or  profitably  employ  a  million  of 
immigrants  before  the  next  million  is  clamoring  at  her 
doors.  Nor  is  she  even  given  a  fair  chance  to  accom 
plish  her  giant  task.  The  demagogues  who  are  em 
ployed  in  the  congenial  sport  of  railroad  baiting,  and 
who  are  enjoying  beyond  measure  the  fun  of  chivying 
[  169  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

business  interests  into  dusty  corners,  are  the  ones  to 
lift  up  their  voices  in  shrill  appeal  for  the  army  of  the 
unemployed.  They  refuse  to  connect  one  phenomenon 
with  the  other.  The  notion  that  crippling  industries 
will  benefit  the  industrious  is  not  so  new  as  it  seems. 
^Esop  must  have  had  a  clear  insight  into  its  workings 
when  he  wrote  the  fable  of  the  goose  that  laid  the 
golden  egg. 

The  City  of  New  York  expends,  according  to  a  re 
cent  report  of  the  Hospital  Investigating  Committee, 
more  than  a  million  of  dollars  a  year  for  the  care  of 
sick,  defective,  and  otherwise  helpless  aliens.  It  ex 
pended  in  1913  nearly  four  hundred  thousand  dollars 
for  the  care  of  aliens  who  had  been  in  this  country  less 
than  five  years.  This  is  the  record  of  our  greatest  city, 
the  one  in  which  the  astute  immigrant  takes  up  his 
abode.  The  education  she  gives  her  little  foreign-born 
children  comprises  for  the  most  part  manual  and  voca 
tional  training,  clinics  for  the  defective,  schools  for 
the  incorrigible,  free  or  cost-price  lunches,  doctoring, 
dentistry,  the  care  of  trained  nurses,  and  a  score  of  simi 
lar  attentions  unknown  to  an  earlier  generation,  un 
dreamed  of  in  the  countries  whence  these  children 
come.  In  return  for  such  fostering  care,  New  York  is 
held  up  to  execration  because  she  has  the  money  to  pay 
the  taxes  which  are  expended  in  this  fashion,  because 
she  lays  the  golden  egg  which  benefits  the  poor  of 
twenty  nations.  Her  unemployed  (reinforced  hugely 

[     I70     ] 


OUR  LADY  POVERTY 

from  less  favored  communities)  riot  in  her  streets  and 
churches,  and  agitators  curse  her  for  a  thing  of  evil, 
a  city  of  palaces  and  slums,  corroded  with  the 

Shame  of  lives  that  lie 
Couched  in  ease,  while  down  the  streets 
Pain  and  want  go  by. 

The  only  people  who  take  short  views  of  life  are  the 
poor,  the  poor  whose  daily  wage  is  spent  on  their  daily 
needs.  Clerks  and  bookkeepers  and  small  tradesmen 
(toilers  upon  whose  struggle  for  decency  and  independ 
ence  nobody  ever  wastes  a  word  of  sympathy)  may  fret 
over  the  uncertainty  of  their  future,  the  narrow  mar 
gin  which  lies  between  them  and  want.  But  the  work 
man  and  his  family  have  a  courage  of  their  own,  the 
courage  of  the  soldier  who  does  not  spend  the  night 
before  battle  calculating  his  chances  of  a  gun-shot 
wound,  or  of  a  legless  future.  It  is  exasperating  to  hear 
a  teamster's  wife  cheerfully  announce  the  coming  of  her 
tenth  baby;  but  the  calmness  with  which  she  faces  the 
situation  has  in  it  something  human  and  elemental. 
It  is  exasperating  to  see  the  teamster  risk  illness  and 
loss  of  work  (he  might  at  least  pull  off  his  wet  clothes 
when  he  gets  home) ;  but  he  tells  you  he  has  not  gone 
to  his  grave  with  a  cold  yet,  and  this  careless  confi 
dence  saves  him  as  much  as  it  costs.  I  read  recently  an 
economist's  sorrowful  complaint  that  families,  in  need 
of  the  necessities  of  life,  go  to  moving-picture  shows; 
that  women,  with  their  husbands'  scanty  earnings  in 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

their  hands,  take  their  children  to  these  blithesome 
entertainments  instead  of  buying  the  Sunday  dinner. 
It  sounds  like  the  citizens  who  buy  motor  cars  instead 
of  paying  off  the  mortgages  on  their  homes,  and  it  is  an 
error  of  judgment  which  the  working  man  is  little  likely 
to  condone;  but  that  the  pleasure-seeking  impulse  — 
which  social  workers  assign  exclusively  to  the  spirit  of 
youth  —  should  mutiny  in  a  matron's  bones  suggests 
survivals  of  cheerfulness,  high  lights  amid  the  gloom. 
The  deprecation  of  earthly  anxiety  taught  by  the 
Gospels,  the  precedence  given  to  the  poor  by  the  New 
Testament,  the  value  placed  upon  voluntary  poverty 
by  the  Christian  Church,  —  these  things  have  for 
nineteen  hundred  years  helped  in  the  moulding  of  men. 
There  still  remain  some  leaven  of  courage,  some  savor 
of  philosophy,  some  echoes  of  ancient  wisdom  (heard 
oftenest  from  uneducated  men),  some  laughter  loud 
and  careless  as  the  laughter  of  the  Middle  Ages,  some 
slow  sense  of  justice,  not  easy  to  pervert.  These  quali 
ties  are  perhaps  as  helpful  as  the  l divine  discontent' 
fostered  by  enthusiasts  for  sorrow,  the  cowardice  bred 
by  insistence  upon  trouble  and  anxiety,  the  rancor  en 
gendered  by  invectives  against  earth  and  heaven.  No 
lot  is  bettered  by  having  its  hardships  emphasized.  No 
man  is  helped  by  the  drowning  of  his  courage,  the  de 
struction  of  his  good-will,  the  paralyzing  grip  of 

Envy  with  squinting  eyes, 

Sick  of  a  strange  disease,  his  neighbor's  health. 


Entertaining  the  Candidate 

By  Katharine  Baker 

BAG  in  hand,  brother  stops  in  for  fifteen  minutes, 
from  campaigning,  to  get  some  clean  shirts.  He  says 
the  candidate  will  be  in  town  day  after  to-morrow.  Do 
we  want  him  to  come  here,  or  shall  he  go  to  a  hotel? 

We  want  him,  of  course.  But  we  deprecate  the  brev 
ity  of  this  notice.  Also  the  cook  and  chambermaid  are 
new,  and  remarkably  inexpert.  Brother,  however,  de 
clines  to  feel  any  concern.  His  confidence  in  our  power 
to  cope  with  emergencies  is  flattering  if  exasperating. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  markets  at  this  time  of  year. 
Guests  have  a  malignant  facility  in  choosing  such 
times.  We  scour  the  country  for  forty  miles  in  search 
of  green  vegetables.  We  confide  in  the  fishmonger, 
who  grieves  sympathetically  over  the  'phone,  because 
all  crabs  are  now  cold-storage,  and  he'd  be  deceiving  us 
if  he  said  otherwise. 

Still  we  are  determined  to  have  luncheon  prepared 
in  the  house.  Last  time  the  august  judge  dined  with  us 
we  summoned  a  caterer  from  a  hundred  miles  away, 
and  though  the  caterer's  food  was  good,  it  was  late. 

[  173 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

We  love  promptness,  and  we  are  going  to  have  it. 
Ladies  knew  all  about  efficiency  long  before  Mr.  Fred 
erick  Taylor.  Only  they  could  n't  teach  it  to  servants, 
and  he  would  find  he  could  n't  either.  But  every  mis 
tress  of  a  house  knows  how  to  make  short  cuts,  and  is 
expert  at '  record  production '  in  emergencies. 

The  casual  brother  says  there  will  be  one  or  two 
dozen  people  at  luncheon.  He  will  telephone  us  fifteen 
minutes  before  they  arrive.  Yes,  really,  that 's  the  best 
he  can  do. 

So  we  prepare  for  one  or  two  dozen  people,  and  they 
must  sit  down  to  luncheon  because  men  hate  a  buffet 
meal.  We  struggle  with  the  problem,  how  many  chick 
ens  are  required  for  twelve  or  twenty-four  people?  The 
answer,  however,  is  really  obvious.  Enough  for  twenty- 
*our  will  be  enough  for  twelve. 

Day  after  to-morrow  arrives.  The  gardener  comes  in 
to  lay  hearth-fires  and  carry  tables.  We  get  out  china 
and  silver.  We  make  salad  and  rolls,  fruit-cup  and 
cake.  We  guide  the  cook's  faltering  steps  over  the  crit 
ical  moments  of  soup  and  chicken.  We  do  the  oysters 
in  our  own  particular  way,  which  we  fancy  inimitable. 
We  arrange  bushels  of  flowers  in  bowls,  vases,  and 
baskets,  and  set  them  on  mantels,  tables,  book-cases, 
everywhere  that  a  flower  can  find  a  footing.  The  chauf 
feur  conies  in  proudly  with  the  flower-holder  from  the 
limousine,  and  we  fill  it  in  honor  of  the  distinguished 
guest. 

[  174 1 


ENTERTAINING  THE  CANDIDATE 

Then  we  go  outside  to  see  that  the  approach  to  the 
house  is  satisfactory.  The  bland  old  gardener  points 
to  the  ivy-covered  wall,  and  says  with  innocent  joy, 
—  it,  ain't  that  ivory  the  prettiest  thing  you  ever 
saw  in  your  life?'  And  we  can't  deny  that  the  lawn 
looks  well,  with  ivy,  and  cosmos,  and  innumerable 
chrysanthemums. 

The  cook  and  chambermaid  will  have  to  help  wait 
on  the  table.  The  chambermaid,  who  is  what  the  but 
ler  contemptuously  calls  'an  educated  nigger,'  and  so 
knows  nothing  useful,  announces  that  she  has  no  white 
uniform.  All  she  has  is  a  cold  in  her  head.  We  give  her 
a  blouse  and  skirt,  wondering  why  Providence  does  n't 
eliminate  the  unfit. 

We  run  upstairs  to  put  on  our  costliest  shoes  and 
stockings,  and  our  most  perishable  gown.  The  lei 
surely  brother  gets  us  on  the  wire  to  say  that  there  will 
be  twenty  guests  in  ten  minutes. 

Descending,  we  reset  the  tables  to  seat  twenty  guests, 
light  the  wood-fires,  toss  together  twenty  mint-juleps, 
and  a  few  over  for  luck,  repeat  our  clear  instructions 
to  the  goggling  chambermaid,  desperately  implore  the 
butler  to  see  that  she  keeps  on  the  job,  drop  a  last 
touch  of  flavoring  in  the  soup,  and  are  sitting  by  the 
fire  with  an  air  of  childish  gayety  and  carelessness  when 
the  train  of  motor-cars  draws  up  to  the  door. 

Here  is  the  judge,  courteous  and  authoritative. 
Here  is  his  assiduous  suite.  The  room  fills  with  faces 

i  175  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

well  known  in  every  country  that  an  illustrated  news 
paper  can  penetrate.  From  the  Golden  Gate  and  the 
Rio  Grande,  from  New  York  and  Alabama,  these  men 
have  come  together,  intent  on  wresting  to  themselves 
the  control  of  the  Western  Hemisphere.  Now  they  are 
a  sort  of  highly  respectable  guerillas.  To-morrow,  very 
likely,  they  will  be  awe-inspiring  magnates. 

Theoretically  we  are  impressed.  Actually  they  have 
mannerisms,  and  some  of  them  wear  spectacles.  We 
reflect  that  the  triumvirs  very  likely  had  manner 
isms,  too,  and  Antony  himself  might  have  been  glad 
to  own  spectacles.  We  try  to  feel  reverence  for  the 
high  calling  of  these  men.  We  hope  they'll  like  our 
luncheon. 

The  butler  brings  in  the  juleps  and  we  maintain  a 
detached  look,  as  though  those  juleps  were  just  a 
happy  thought  of  the  butler  himself,  and  we  were  as 
much  surprised  as  anybody.  The  judge  won't  have  one, 
but  most  everybody  else  will.  The  newspaper  men 
look  love  and  gratitude  at  the  butler. 

That  earnest  youth  is  the  judge's  secretary.  The 
huge,  iron-gray  man  expects  to  be  a  governor  after  No 
vember  fifth,  if  dreams  come  true.  The  amiable  old 
gentleman  who  never  leaves  the  judge's  side,  has  come 
two  thousand  miles  out  of  pure  political  enthusiasm, 
to  protect  the  candidate  from  assassins.  He  can  do  it, 
too,  we  conclude,  when  we  look  past  his  smiling  mouth 
into  his  steely  eyes. 


ENTERTAINING  THE  CANDIDATE 

Here  is  the  campaign  manager,  business  man  and 
man-of-the-world . 

This  pretty  little  newspaper-woman  from  Utah  im 
plores  us  to  get  an  utterance  on  suffrage  from  the  judge. 
Just  a  word.  It  will  save  him  thousands  of  votes. 
Well,  she's  a  dear  little  thing,  but  we  can't  take  advan 
tage  of  our  guest. 

Luncheon  is  announced.  Brother,  slightly  apolo 
getic,  murmurs  that  there  are  twenty-three.  Entirely 
unforeseen.  He  babbles  incoherently. 

But  it's  all  right.  We  women  won't  come  to  the 
table.  Voting  and  eating  and  things  like  that  are  better 
left  to  the  men  anyway.  Why  should  women  want  to 
do  either,  when  they  have  fathers  and  brothers  to  do  it 
for  them?  We  can  sit  in  the  gallery  and  watch.  It's 
very  nice  for  us.  And  exclusive.  Nothing  promiscu 
ous.  Yes,  go  on.  We  '11  wait. 

Whoever  is  listening  to  our  conversation  professes 
heartbreak  at  our  decision,  and  edges  toward  the 
rapidly  filling  dining-room. 

We  sit  down  to  play  lady  of  leisure,  in  various  af 
fected  attitudes.  We  are  not  going  near  the  kitchen 
again.  The  luncheon  is  simple.  Everything  is  per 
fectly  arranged.  The  servants  can  do  it  all.  It's  mere 
machine  work. 

From  afar  we  observe  the  soup  vanishing.  Then  one 
by  one  we  stammer,  —  '  The  mayonnaise  —  -  '  I 
wonder  if  the  rolls  are  hot  -  -  '  Cook's  coffee  is  im- 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

possible,'  —  fade  silently  up  the  front  stair,  and  scurry 
down  the  kitchen-way. 

We  cover  the  perishable  gown  with  a  huge  white 
apron,  we  send  up  a  fervent  prayer  for  the  costly  shoes, 
and  go  where  we  are  needed  most. 

We  save  the  day  for  good  coffee.  With  the  precision 
of  a  juggler  we  rescue  plates  from  the  chambermaid, 
who  is  overcome  by  this  introduction  to  the  great 
world  and  dawdles  contemplatively  through  the  pantry 
door.  Charmed  with  our  proficiency,  she  stands  by 
our  side,  and  watches  us  clear  a  shelf  of  china  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye.  If  she  could  find  a  stool,  she  would 
sit  at  our  feet,  making  motion  studies.  But  she  could 
n't  find  it  if  it  were  already  there.  She  could  n't  find 
anything.  We  order  her  back  to  the  dining-room, 
where  she  takes  up  a  strategic  position  by  the  win 
dow,  from  which  she  can  idly  survey  the  mob  outside, 
and  the  hungry  men  within. 

The  last  coffee-cup  has  passed  through  the  doorway. 
Cigars  and  matches  are  circulating  in  the  butler's  cap 
able  hands.  No  more  need  for  us. 

We  shed  the  enveloping  aprons,  disappear  from  the 
kitchen,  and  materialize  again,  elegantly  useless,  in 
the  drawing-room.  Nobody  can  say  that  luncheon 
was  n't  hot  and  promptly  served. 

Chairs  begin  to  clatter.  They  are  rising  from  the 
table.  A  brass  band  outside  bursts  into  being. 

Brother  had  foretold  that  band  to  us,  and  we  had 

1 178  ] 


ENTERTAINING  THE  CANDIDATE 

expressed  vivid  doubts.  He  said  it  would  cost  eighty 
dollars.  Now  eighty  dollars  in  itself  is  a  respectable 
sum,  a  sum  capable  eyen  of  exerting  some  mild  fascin 
ation,  but  eighty  dollars  viewed  in  relation  to  a  band 
becomes  merely  ludicrous. 

We  said  an  eighty-dollar  band  was  a  thing  innately 
impossible,  like  free-trade,  or  a  dachshund.  Brother 
attested  that  the  next  best  grade  of  band  would  de 
mand  eight  hundred.  We  justly  caviled  at  eight  hun 
dred.  We  inquired,  Why  any  band?  Brother  claimed 
that  it  would  make  a  cheerful  noise,  and  we  yielded. 

So  at  this  moment  the  band  begins  to  make  a  noise. 
We  perceive  at  once  that  the  price  was  accurately 
gauged.  It  is  unquestionably  an  eighty-dollar  band. 
We  begin  to  believe  in  dachshunds. 

To  these  supposedly  cheerful  strains  the  gentlemen 
stream  into  the  drawing-room.  They  beam  repletely. 
They  tell  us  what  a  fine  luncheon  it  was.  They  are  elo 
quent  about  it.  All  the  conditions  of  their  entertain 
ment  were  ideal,  they  would  have  us  believe.  They 
imply  that  we  are  mighty  lucky,  in  that  our  men  can 
provide  us  with  such  a  luxurious  existence.  They 
smile  with  majestic  benignity  at  these  fair,  but  frivo 
lous  pensioners  on  masculine  bounty.  American  women 
are  petted,  helpless  dolls,  anyway.  Foreigners  have 
said  so.  They  clasp  our  useless  hands  in  fervent  fare 
wells.  They  proceed  in  state  to  the  waiting  cars.  They 
hope  we  will  follow  them  to  the  meeting.  Oh,  yes,  we 

(  179 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

will  come,  though  incapable  of  apprehending  the  high 
problems  of  government. 

Led  by  the  honest  band,  surrounded  by  flags,  fol 
lowed  by  cheers,  they  disappear  in  magnificent  proces 
sion.  Now  we  may  straggle  to  the  dining-room  and 
eat  cold  though  matchless  oysters,  tepid  chicken,  and 
in  general  whatever  there  is  any  left  of. 

The  chambermaid  has  broken  a  lovely  old  Minton 
plate.  We  are  glad  we  did  n't  use  the  coffee-cups  that 
were  made  in  France  for  Dolly  Madison.  She  would 
have  enjoyed  wrecking  those. 

We  hurry,  because  we  don't  want  to  miss  the  meet 
ing  altogether.  We  think  enviously  of  the  men.  In  our 
secret  souls,  we'd  like  to  campaign.  We  love  to  talk 
better  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  and  we  could 
make  nice  speeches,  too.  But  we  must  do  the  oysters 
and  the  odd  jobs,  and  keep  the  hearth-fires  going,  like 
responsible  vestal  virgins.  It's  woman's  sphere.  Man 
gave  it  to  her  because  he  did  n't  want  it  himself. 


The  Street 

By  Simeon  Strunsky 

IT  is  two  short  blocks  from  my  office  near  Park  Row 
to  the  Subway  station  where  I  take  the  express  for 
Belshazzar  Court.  Eight  months  in  the  year  it  is  my 
endeavor  to  traverse  this  distance  as  quickly  as  I  can. 
This  is  done  by  cutting  diagonally  across  the  street 
traffic.  By  virtue  of  the  law  governing  right-angled 
triangles  I  thus  save  as  much  as  fifty  feet  and  one  fifth 
of  a  minute  of  time.  In  the  course  of  a  year  this  saving 
amounts  to  sixty  minutes,  which  may  be  profitably 
spent  over  a  two-reel  presentation  of  'The  Moon 
shiner's  Bride/  supplemented  by  an  intimate  picture  of 
Lumbering  in  Saskatchewan.  But  with  the  coming  of 
warm  weather  my  habits  change.  It  grows  more  diffi 
cult  to  plunge  into  the  murk  of  the  Subway. 

A  foretaste  of  the  languor  of  June  is  in  the  air.  The 
turnstile  storm-doors  in  our  office  building,  which  have 
been  put  aside  for  brief  periods  during  the  first  decep 
tive  approaches  of  spring,  only  to  come  back  trium 
phant  from  Elba,  have  been  definitively  removed.  The 
steel-workers  pace  their  girders  twenty  floors  high  al- 

[   181   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

most  in  mid-season  form,  and  their  pneumatic  ham 
mers  scold  and  chatter  through  the  sultry  hours.  The 
soda-fountains  are  bright  with  new  compounds  whose 
names  ingeniously  reflect  the  world's  progress  from  day 
to  day  in  politics,  science,  and  the  arts.  From  my  win 
dow  I  can  see  the  long  black  steamships  pushing  down 
to  the  sea,  and  they  raise  vague  speculations  in  my 
mind  about  the  cost  of  living  in  the  vicinity  of  Sorrento 
and  Fontainebleau.  On  such  a  day  I  am  reminded  of 
my  physician's  orders,  issued  last  December,  to  walk  a 
mile  every  afternoon  on  leaving  my  office.  So  I  stroll 
up  Broadway  with  the  intention  of  taking  my  train 
farther  up-town,  at  Fourteenth  Street. 

The  doctor  did  not  say  stroll.  He  said  a  brisk  walk 
with  head  erect,  chest  thrown  out,  diaphragm  well  con 
tracted,  and  a  general  aspect  of  money  in  the  bank. 
But  here  enters  human  perversity.  The  only  place 
where  I  am  in  the  mood  to  walk  after  the  prescribed 
military  fashion  is  in  the  open  country.  Just  where  by 
all  accounts  I  ought  to  be  sauntering  without  heed  to 
time,  studying  the  lovely  texts  which  Nature  has  set 
down  in  the  modest  type-forms  selected  from  her  inex 
haustible  fonts, — in  the  minion  of  ripening  berries,  in 
the  nonpareil  of  crawling  insect  life,  the  agate  of  tendril 
and  filament,  and  the  12 -point  diamond  of  the  dust,  — 
there  I  stride  along  and  see  little. 

And  in  the  city,  where  I  should  swing  along  briskly, 
I  lounge.  What  is  there  on  Broadway  to  linger  over? 

182 


THE  STREET 

On  Broadway,  Nature  has  used  her  biggest,  fattest 
type-forms.  Tall,  flat,  building  fronts,  brazen  with 
many  windows  and  ribbed  with  commercial  gilt  let 
tering  six  feet  high ;  shrieking  proclamations  of  auction 
sales  written  in  letters  of  fire  on  vast  canvasses;  railway 
posters  in  scarlet  and  blue  and  green;  rotatory  barber- 
poles  striving  at  the  national  colors  and  producing 
vertigo;  banners,  escutcheons,  crests,  in  all  the  primary 
colors  —  surely  none  of  these  things  needs  poring  over. 
And  I  know  them  with  my  eyes  closed.  I  know  the 
windows  where  lithe  youths  in  gymnasium  dress  de 
monstrate  the  virtue  of  home  exercises;  the  windows 
where  other  young  men  do  nothing  but  put  on  and  take 
off  patent  reversible  near-linen  collars;  where  young 
women  deftly  roll  cigarettes;  where  other  young  wo 
men  whittle  at  sticks  with  miraculously  stropped 
razors.  I  know  these  things  by  heart,  yet  I  linger  over 
them  in  flagrantly  unhygienic  attitudes,  my  shoulders 
bent  forward  and  my  chest  and  diaphragm  in  a  posi 
tion  precisely  the  reverse  of  that  prescribed  by  the 
doctor. 

Perhaps  the  thing  that  makes  me  linger  before  these 
familiar  sights  is  the  odd  circumstance  that  in  Broad 
way's  shop-windows  Nature  is  almost  never  herself, 
but  is  either  supernatural  or  artificial.  Nature,  for 
instance,  never  intended  that  razors  should  cut  wood 
and  remain  sharp;  that  linen  collars  should  keep  on 
getting  cleaner  the  longer  they  are  worn;  that  glass 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

should  not  break;  that  ink  should  not  stain;  that  gauze 
should  not  tear;  that  an  object  worth  five  dollars 
should  sell  for  $1.39;  but  all  these  things  happen  in 
Broadway  windows.  Williams,  whom  I  meet  now  and 
then,  who  sometimes  turns  and  walks  up  with  me  to 
Fourteenth  Street,  pointed  out  to  me  the  other  day  how 
strange  a  thing  it  was  that  the  one  street  which  has 
become  a  synonym  for  '  real  life '  to  all  good  suburban 
Americans  is  not  real  at  all,  but  is  crowded  either  with 
miracles  or  with  imitations. 

The  windows  on  Broadway  glow  with  wax  fruits  and 
with  flowers  of  muslin  and  taffeta  drawn  by  bounteous 
Nature  from  her  storehouses  in  Parisian  garret  work 
shops.  Broadway's  ostrich  feathers  have  been  plucked 
in  East  Side  tenements.  The  huge  cigars  in  the  tobac 
conist's  windows  are  of  wood.  The  enormous  bottles 
of  champagne  in  the  saloons  are  of  cardboard,  and 
empty.  The  tall  scaffoldings  of  proprietary  medicine 
bottles  in  the  drug  shops  are  of  paper.  'Why,'  said 
Williams,  'even  the  jewelry  sold  in  the  Japanese  auc 
tion  stores  is  not  genuine,  and  the  sellers  are  not  Jap 


anese.' 


This  bustling  mart  of  commerce,  as  the  generation 
after  the  Civil  War  used  to  say,  is  only  a  world  of  illu 
sion.  Artificial  flowers,  artificial  fruits,  artificial  limbs, 
tobacco,  rubber,  silks,  woolens,  straws,  gold,  silver. 
The  young  men  and  women  who  manipulate  razors 
and  elastic  cords  are  real,  but  not  always.  Williams 

I   184  1 


THE  STREET 

and  I  once  stood  for  a  long  while  and  gazed  at  a  young 
woman  posing  in  a  drug-shop  window,  and  argued 
whether  she  was  alive.  Ultimately  she  winked  and 
Williams  gloated  over  me.  But  how  do  I  know  her 
wink  was  real?  At  any  rate  the  great  mass  of  human 
life  in  the  windows  is  artificial.  The  ladies  who  smile 
out  of  charming  morning  costumes  are  obviously  of 
lining  and  plaster.  Their  smug  Herculean  husbands  in 
pajamas  preserve  their  equanimity  in  the  severest  win 
ter  weather  only  because  of  their  wire-and-plaster  con 
stitution.  The  baby  reposing  in  its  beribboned  crib  is 
china  and  excelsior.  Illusion  everywhere. 

But  the  Broadway  crowd  is  real.  You  only  have  to 
buffet  it  for  five  minutes  to  feel,  in  eyes  and  arms  and 
shoulders,  how  real  it  is.  When  I  was  a  boy  and  was 
taken  to  the  circus  it  was  always  an  amazing  thing  to 
me  that  there  should  be  so  many  people  in  the  street 
moving  in  a  direction  away  from  the  circus.  Some 
thing  of  this  sensation  still  besets  me  whenever  we  go 
down  in  the  Subway  from  Belshazzar  Court  to  hear  Ca 
ruso.  The  presence  of  all  the  other  people  on  our  train 
is  simple  enough.  They  are  all  on  their  way  to  hear 
Caruso.  But  what  of  the  crowds  in  the  trams  that  flash 
by  in  the  opposite  direction?  It  is  not  a  question  of 
feeling  sorry  for  them.  I  try  to  understand  and  I  fail. 
But  on  Broadway  on  a  late  summer  afternoon  the  ob 
verse  is  true.  The  natural  thing  is  that  the  living  tide 
as  it  presses  south  shall  beat  me  back,  halt  me,  eddy 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

around  me.  I  know  that  there  are  people  moving 
north  with  me,  but  I  am  not  acutely  aware  of  them. 
This  onrush  of  faces  converges  on  me  alone.  It  is  I 
against  half  the  world. 

And  then  suddenly  out  of  the  surge  of  faces  one  leaps 
out  at  me.  It  is  Williams,  whose  doctor  has  told  him 
that  the  surest  way  of  righting  down  the  lust  for  to 
bacco  is  to  walk  down  from  his  office  to  the  ferry  every 
afternoon.  Williams  and  I  salute  each  other  after  the 
fashion  of  Broadway,  which  is  to  exchange  greetings 
backward  over  the  shoulder.  This  is  the  first  step  in 
an  elaborate  minuet.  Because  we  have  passed  each 
other  before  recognition  came,  our  hands  fly  out  back 
ward.  Now  we  whirl  half  around,  so  that  I  who  have 
been  moving  north  face  the  west,  while  Williams,  who 
has  been  traveling  south,  now  looks  east.  Our  clasped 
hands  strain  at  each  other  as  we  stand  there  poised  for 
flight  after  the  first  greeting.  'A  quarter  of  a  minute 
perhaps,  and  we  have  said  good-bye. 

But  if  the  critical  quarter  of  a  minute  passes,  there 
ensues  a  change  of  geographical  position  which  corre 
sponds  to  a  change  of  soul  within  us.  I  suddenly  say 
to  myself  that  there  are  plenty  of  trains  to  be  had  at 
Fourteenth  Street.  Williams  recalls  that  another  boat 
will  leave  Battery  Place  shortly  after  the  one  he  is 
bound  for.  So  the  tension  of  our  outstretched  arms 
relaxes.  I,  who  have  been  facing  west,  complete  the 
half  circle  and  swing  south.  Williams  veers  due  north, 
[  186  ] 


THE  STREET 

and  we  two  men  stand  face  to  face.  The  beat  and 
clamor  of  the  crowd  fall  away  from  us  like  a  well- 
trained  stage  mob.  We  are  in  Broadway,  but  not 
of  it. 

'Well,  what's  the  good  word?'  says  Williams. 

When  two  men  meet  on  Broadway  the  spirit  of  op 
timism  strikes  fire.  We  begin  by  asking  each  other 
what  the  good  word  is.  We  take  it  for  granted  that 
neither  of  us  has  anything  but  a  chronicle  of  victory 
and  courage  to  relate.  What  other  word  but  the  good 
word  is  tolerable  in  the  lexicon  of  living,  upstanding 
men?  Failure  is  only  for  the  dead.  Surrender  is  for  the 
man  with  yellow  in  his  nature.  So  Williams  and  I  pay 
our  acknowledgments  to  this  best  of  possible  worlds.  I 
give  Williams  the  good  word.  I  make  no  allusion  to  the 
fact  that  I  have  spent  a  miserable  night  in  communion 
with  neuralgia;  how  can  that  possibly  concern  him? 
Another  manuscript  came  back  this  morning  from  an 
editor  who  regretted  that  his  is  the  most  unintelligent 
body  of  readers  in  the  country.  The  third  cook  in  three 
weeks  left  us  last  night  after  making  vigorous  reflec 
tions  on  m'y  wife's  good  nature  and  my  own  appear 
ance.  Only  an  hour  ago,  as  I  was  watching  the  long, 
black  steamers  bound  for  Sorrento  and  Fontainebleau, 
the  monotony  of  one's  treadmill  work,  the  flat  unprofit 
ableness  of  scribbling  endlessly  on  sheets  of  paper,  had 
become  almost  a  nausea.  But  Williams  will  know  no 
thing  of  this  from  me.  Why  should  he?  He  may  have 

[    187   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

been  sitting  up  all  night  with  a  sick  child.  At  this  very 
moment  the  thought  of  the  little  parched  lips,  the 
moan,  the  unseeing  eyes,  may  be  tearing  at  his  entrails; 
but  he  in  turn  gives  me  the  good  word,  and  many 
others  after  that,  and  we  pass  on. 

But  sometimes  I  doubt.  This  splendid  optimism  of 
people  on  Broadway,  in  the  Subway  and  in  the  shops 
and  offices — is  it  really  a  sign  of  high  spiritual  cour 
age,  or  is  it  just  lack  of  sensibility?  Do  we  find  it  easy 
to  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip,  to  buck  up,  to  never  say  die, 
because  we  are  brave  men,  or  simply  because  we  lack 
the  sensitiveness  and  the  imagination  to  react  to  pain? 
It  may  be  even  worse  than  that.  It  may  be  part  of  our 
commercial  gift  for  window-dressing,  for  putting  up  a 
good  front. 

Sometimes  I  feel  that  Williams  has  no  right  to  be 
walking  down  Broadway  on  business  when  there  is  a 
stricken  child  at  home.  The  world  cannot  possibly 
need  him  at  that  moment  as  much  as  his  own  flesh  and 
blood  does.  It  is  not  courage;  it  is  brutish  indifference. 
At  such  times  I  am  tempted  to  dismiss  as  mythical  all 
this  fine  talk  about  feelings  that  run  deep  beneath  the 
surface,  and  bruised  hearts  that  ache  under  the  smile. 
If  a  man  really  suffers  he  will  show  it.  If  a  man  culti 
vates  the  habit  of  not  showing  emotion  he  will  end  by 
having  none  to  show.  How  much  of  Broadway's  op 
timism  is  —  But  here  I  am  paraphrasing  William 
James's  Principles  of  Psychology,  which  the  reader  can 
[  188  ] 


THE  STREET 

just  as  well  consult  for  himself  in  the  latest  revised 
edition  of  1907. 

Also,  I  am  exaggerating.  Most  likely  Williams's 
children  are  all  in  perfect  health,  and  my  envelope 
from  the  editor  has  brought  a  check  instead  of  a  rejec 
tion  slip.  It  is  on  such  occasions  that  Williams  and  I, 
after  shaking  hands  the  way  a  locomotive  takes  on  wa 
ter  on  the  run,  wheel  around,  halt,  and  proceed  to  buy 
something  at  the  rate  of  two  for  a  quarter.  If  any  one 
is  ever  inclined  to  doubt  the  spirit  of  American  fra 
ternity,  it  is  only  necessary  to  recall  the  number  of  com 
modities  for  men  that  sell  two  for  twenty-five  cents. 
In  theory,  the  two  cigars  which  Williams  and  I  buy  for 
twenty-five  cents  are  worth  fifteen  cents  apiece.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  they  are  probably  ten-cent  cigars.  But 
the  shopkeeper  is  welcome  to  his  extra  nickel.  It  is  a 
small  price  to  pay  for  the  seal  of  comradeship  that 
stamps  his  pair  of  cigars  selling  for  a  single  quarter. 
Two  men  who  have  concluded  a  business  deal  in  which 
each  has  commendably  tried  to  get  the  better  of  the 
other  may  call  for  twenty-five  cent  perfectos  or  for 
half-dollar  Dreadnoughts.  I  understand  there  are 
such.  But  friends  sitting  down  together  will  always 
demand  cigars  that  go  for  a  round  sum,  two  for  a 
quarter  or  three  for  fifty  (if  the  editor's  check  is  what 
it  ought  to  be). 

When  people  speak  of  the  want  of  real  comradeship 
among  women,  I  sometimes  wonder  if  one  of  the  rea- 

[  189 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

sons  may  not  be  that  the  prices  which  women  are  ac 
customed  to  pay  are  individualistic  instead  of  fra 
ternal.  The  soda  fountains  and  the  street  cars  do  not 
dispense  goods  at  the  rate  of  two  items  for  a  single  coin. 
It  is  infinitely  worse  in  the  department  stores.  Treat 
ing  a  friend  to  something  that  costs  $2.79  is  inconceiv 
able.  But  I  have  really  wandered  from  my  point. 

'Well,  be  good/  says  Williams,  and  rushes  off  to 
catch  his  boat. 

The  point  I  wish  to  make  is  that  on  Broadway  peo 
ple  pay  tribute  to  the  principle  of  goodness  that  rules 
this  world,  both  in  the  way  they  greet  and  in  the  way 
they  part.  We  salute  by  asking  each  other  what  the 
good  word  is.  When  we  say  good-bye  we  enjoin  each 
other  to  be  good.  The  humorous  assumption  is  that 
gay  devils  like  Williams  and  me  need  to  be  constantly 
warned  against  straying  off  into  the  primrose  paths 
that  run  out  of  Broadway. 

Simple,  humorous,  average  American  man!  You 
have  left  your  suburban  couch  in  time  to  walk  half  a 
mile  to  the  station  and  catch  the  7.59  for  the  city. 
You  have  read  your  morning  paper;  discussed  the  wea 
ther,  the  tariff,  and  the  prospects  for  lettuce  with  your 
neighbor;  and  made  the  office  only  a  minute  late.  You 
have  been  fastened  to  your  desk  from  nine  o'clock  to 
five,  with  half  an  hour  for  lunch,  which  you  have  eaten 
in  a  clamorous,  overheated  restaurant  while  you 
watched  your  hat  and  coat.  At  odd  moments  during 

[    190   1 


THE  STREET 

the  day  the  thought  of  doctor's  bills,  rent  bills,  school 
bills,  has  insisted  on  receiving  attention.  At  the  end 
of  the  day,  laden  with  parcels  from  the  market,  from 
the  hardware  store,  from  the  seedman,  you  are  bound 
for  the  ferry  to  catch  the  5.43,  when  you  meet  Smith, 
who,  having  passed  the  good  word,  sends  you  on  your 
way  with  the  injunction  to  be  good  —  not  to  play  rou 
lette,  not  to  open  wine,  not  to  turkey- trot,  not  to 
joy-ride,  not  to  haunt  the  stage  door.  Be  good,  O 
simple,  humorous,  average  suburban  American! 

I  take  back  that  word  suburban.  The  Sunday  Sup 
plement  has  given  it  a  meaning  which  is  not  mine.  I 
am  speaking  only  of  the  suburban  in  spirit,  of  a  sim 
plicity,  a  meekness  which  is  of  the  soul  only.  Out 
wardly  there  is  nothing  suburban  about  the  crowd  on 
lower  Broadway.  The  man  in  the  street  is  not  at  all 
the  diminutive,  apologetic  creature  with  side  whiskers 
whom  Mr.  F.  B.  Opper  brought  forth  and  named 
Common  People,  who  begat  the  Strap-Hanger,  who  be 
gat  the  Rent-Payer  and  the  Ultimate  Consumer.  The 
crowd  on  lower  Broadway  is  alert  and  well  set  up.  Yes, 
though  one  hates  to  do  it,  I  must  say  l clean-cut.'  The 
men  on  the  sidewalk  are  young,  limber,  sharp-faced, 
almost  insolent  young  men.  There  are  not  very  many 
old  men  in  the  crowd,  though  I  see  any  number  of 
gray-haired  young  men.  Seldom  do  you  detect  the 
traditional  signs  of  age,  the  sagging  lines  of  the  face, 
the  relaxed  abdominal  contour,  the  tamed  spirit.  The 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

young,  the  young-old,  the  old-young,  but  rarely  quite 
the  old. 

I  am  speaking  only  of  externals.  Clean-cut,  eager 
faces  are  very  frequently  disappointing.  A  very  ordi- 
ary  mind  may  be  working  behind  that  clear  sweep  of 
brow  and  nose  and  chin.  I  have  known  the  shock  of 
young  men  who  look  like  kings  of  Wall  Street  and 
speak  like  shoe  clerks.  They  are  shoe  clerks.  But  the 
appearance  is  there,  that  athletic  carriage  which  is 
helped  out  by  our  triumphant,  ready-made  clothing. 
I  suppose  I  ought  to  detest  the  tailor's  tricks  which  iron 
out  all  ages  and  all  stations  into  a  uniformity  of  padded 
shoulders  and  trim  waist-lines  and  hips.  I  imagine  I 
ought  to  despise  our  habit  of  wearing  elegant  shoddy 
where  the  European  chooses  honest,  clumsy  woolens. 
But  I  am  concerned  only  with  externals,  and  in  out 
ward  appearances  a  Broadway  crowd  beats  the  world. 
^Esthetically  we  simply  are  in  a  class  by  ourselves  when 
compared  with  the  Englishman  and  the  Teuton  in 
their  skimpy,  ill-cut  garments.  Let  the  British  and 
German  ambassadors  at  Washington  do  their  worst. 
This  is  my  firm  belief  and  I  will  maintain  it  against 
the  world.  The  truth  must  out.  Ruat  ccdum.  Ich 
kann  nicht  anders.  J'y  suis,j'y  reste. 

Williams  laughs  at  my  lyrical  outbursts.  But  I  am 
not  yet  through.  I  still  have  to  speak  of  the  women  in 
the  crowd.  What  an  infinitely  finer  thing  is  a  woman 
than  a  man  of  her  class!  To  see  this  for  yourself  you 


THE  STREET 

have  only  to  walk  up  Broadway  until  the  southward- 
bearing  stream  breaks  off  and  the  tide  begins  to  run 
from  west  to  east.  You  have  passed  out  of  the  com 
mercial  district  into  the  region  of  factories.  It  is  well 
on  toward  dark,  and  the  barracks  that  go  by  the  un 
lovely  name  of  loft  buildings,  are  pouring  out  their 
battalions  of  needle- workers.  The  crowd  has  become  a 
mass.  The  nervous  pace  of  lower  Broadway  slackens 
to  the  steady,  patient  tramp  of  a  host.  It  is  an  army  of 
women,  with  here  and  there  a  flying  detachment  of  the 
male. 

On  the  faces  of  the  men  the  day's  toil  has  written 
its  record  even  as  on  the  women,  but  in  a  much  coarser 
hand.  Fatigue  has  beaten  down  the  soul  of  these  men 
into  brutish  indifference,  but  in  the  women  it  has 
drawn  fine  the  flesh  only  to  make  it  more  eloquent  of 
the  soul.  Instead  of  listlessness,  there  is  wistfulness. 
Instead  of  vacuity  you  read  mystery.  Innate  grace 
rises  above  the  vulgarity  of  the  dress.  Cheap,  tawdry 
blouse  and  imitation  willow-plume  walk  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  the  shoddy  coat  of  the  male,  copying 
Fifth  Avenue  as  fifty  cents  may  attain  to  five  dollars. 
But  the  men's  shoddy  is  merely  a  horror,  whereas 
woman  transfigures  and  subtilizes  the  cheap  material. 
The  spirit  of  grace  which  is  the  birthright  of  her  sex 
cannot  be  killed  —  not  even  by  the  presence  of  her  best 
young  man  in  Sunday  clothes.  She  is  finer  by  the  her 
itage  of  her  sex,,  and  America  has  accentuated  her 

i  193  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

title.  This  America  which  drains  her  youthful  vigor 
with  overwork,  which  takes  from  her  cheeks  the  color 
she  has  brought  from  her  Slavic  or  Italian  peasant 
home,  makes  restitution  by  remoulding  her  in  more 
delicate,  more  alluring  lines,  gives  her  the  high  privi 
lege  of  charm  —  and  neurosis. 

Williams  and  I  pause  at  the  Subway  entrances  and 
watch  the  earth  suck  in  the  crowd.  It  lets  itself  be 
swallowed  up  with  meek  good-nature.  Our  amazing 
good-nature!  Political  philosophers  have  deplored  the 
fact.  They  have  urged  us  to  be  quicker- tempered, 
more  resentful  of  being  stepped  upon,  more  inclined  to 
write  letters  to  the  editor.  I  agree  that  only  in  that 
way  can  we  be  rid  of  political  bosses,  of  brutal  police 
men,  of  ticket-speculators,  of  taxi-cab  extortioners,  of 
insolent  waiters,  of  janitors,  of  indecent  congestion  in 
travel,  of  unheated  cars  in  the  winter  and  barred-up 
windows  in  summer.  I  am  at  heart  with  the  social 
philosophers.  But  then  I  am  not  typical  of  the  crowd. 
When  my  neighbor's  elbow  injects  itself  into  the  small 
of  my  back,  I  twist  around  and  glower  at  him.  I  forget 
that  his  elbow  is  the  innocent  mechanical  result  of  a 
whole  series  of  elbows  and  backs  extending  the  length 
of  the  car,  to  where  the  first  cause  operates  in  the  form 
of  a  station-guard's  shoulder  ramming  the  human  cat 
tle  into  their  stalls.  In  the  faces  about  me  there  is  no 
resentment.  Instead  of  smashing  windows,  instead  of 
raising  barricades  in  the  Subway  and  hanging  the 

[   194  1 


THE  STREET 

train-guards  with  their  own  lanterns  about  their  necks, 
the  crowd  sways  and  bends  to  the  lurching  of  the  train, 
and  young  voices  call  out  cheerfully,  '  Plenty  of  room 
ahead.' 

Horribly  good-natured!  We  have  taken  a  phrase 
which  is  the  badge  of  our  shame  and  turned  it  into  a 
jest.  Plenty  of  room  ahead!  If  this  were  a  squat,  ill- 
formed  proletarian  race  obviously  predestined  to  sub 
jection,  one  might  understand.  But  that  a  crowd  of 
trim,  well-cut,  self-reliant  Americans,  sharp-featured, 
alert,  insolent  as  I  have  called  them,  that  they  should 
submit  is  a  puzzle.  Perhaps  it  is  because  of  the  fierce 
democracy  of  it  all.  The  crush,  the  enforced  intimacies 
of  physical  contact,  the  feeling  that  a  man's  natural 
condition  is  to  push  and  be  pushed,  to  shove  ahead 
when  the  opportunity  offers  and  to  take  it  like  a  man 
when  no  chance  presents  itself  —  that  is  equality.  A 
seat  in  the  Subway  is  like  the  prizes  of  life  for  which 
men  have  fought  in  these  United  States.  You  strug 
gle,  you  win  or  lose.  If  the  other  man  wins  there  is  no 
envy;  admiration  rather,  provided  he  has  not  shouldered 
and  elbowed  out  of  reason.  That  god-like  freedom 
from  envy  is  passing  to-day,  and  perhaps  the  good 
nature  of  the  crowd  in  the  Subway  will  pass.  I  see 
signs  of  the  approaching  change.  People  do  not  call 
out,  'Plenty  of  room  ahead,'  so  frequently  as  they 
used  to. 

Good-natured  when  dangling  from  the  strap  in  the 

i  195  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

Subway,  good-natured  in  front  of  baseball  bulletins  on 
Park  Row,  good-natured  in  the  face  of  so  much  op 
pression  and  injustice,  where  is  the  supposed  cruelty 
of  the  '  mob?  I  am  ready  to  affirm  on  oath  that  the 
mob  is  not  vindictive,  that  it  is  not  cruel.  It  may  be  a 
bit  sharp- tongued,  fickle,  a  bit  mischievous,  but  in  the 
heart  of  the  crowd  there  is  no  evil  passion.  The  evil 
comes  from  the  leaders,  the  demagogues,  the  profes 
sional  distorters  of  right  thinking  and  right  feeling. 
The  crowd  in  the  bleachers  is  not  the  clamorous,  brute 
mob  of  tradition.  I  have  watched  faces  in  the  bleach 
ers  and  in  the  grand-stand  and  seen  little  of  that  fury 
which  is  supposed  to  animate  the  fan.  For  the  most 
part  he  sits  there  with  folded  arms,  thin-lipped,  eager, 
but  after  all  conscious  that  there  are  other  things  in 
life  besides  baseball.  No,  it  is  the  leaders,  the  base 
ball  editors,  the  cartoonists,  the  humorists,  the  pro 
fessional  stimulators  of  'local  pride/  with  their  exag 
gerated  gloatings  over  a  game  won,  their  poisonous 
attacks  upon  a  losing  team,  who  are  responsible.  It 
is  these  demagogues  who  drill  the  crowd  in  the  gospel 
of  loving  only  a  winner  —  but  if  I  keep  on  I  shall  be 
in  politics  before  I  know  it. 

If  you  see  in  the  homeward  crowd  in  the  Subway  a 
face  over  which  the  pall  of  depression  has  settled,  that 
face  very  likely  is  bent  over  the  comic  pictures  in  the 
evening  paper.  I  cannot  recall  seeing  any  one  smile 
over  these  long  serials  of  humorous  adventure  which 

i  196 1 


THE  STREET 

run  from  day  to  day  and  from  year  to  year.  I  have 
seen  readers  turn  mechanically  to  these  lurid  comics 
and  pore  over  them,  foreheads  puckered  into  a  frown, 
lips  unconsciously  spelling  out  the  long  legends  which 
issue  in  the  form  of  little  balloons  and  lozenges  from 
that  amazing  portrait  gallery  of  dwarfs,  giants,  shrilling 
viragos  and  their  diminutive  husbands,  devil-children, 
quadrupeds,  insects,  —  an  entire  zoology.  If  any  stim 
ulus  rises  from  these  pages  to  the  puzzled  brain,  the 
effect  is  not  visible.  I  imagine  that  by  dint  of  repeti 
tion  through  the  years  these  grotesque  creations  have 
become  a  reality  to  millions  of  readers.  It  is  no  longer 
a  question  of  humor,  it  is  a  vice.  The  Desperate  Des 
monds,  the  Newly-weds,  and  the  Dingbats,  have  ac 
quired  a  horrible  fascination.  Otherwise  I  cannot  see 
why  readers  of  the  funny  page  should  appear  to  be 
memorizing  pages  from  Euclid. 

This  by  way  of  anticipation.  What  the  doctor  has 
said  of  exercise  being  a  habit  which  grows  easy  with 
time  is  true.  It  is  the  first  five  minutes  of  walking  that 
are  wearisome.  I  find  myself  strolling  past  Fourteenth 
Street,  where  I  was  to  take  my  train  for  Belshazzar 
Court.  Never  mind,  Forty-Second  Street  will  do  as 
well.  I  am  now  on  a  different  Broadway.  The  crowd  is 
no  longer  north  and  south,  but  flows  in  every  direction. 
It  is  churned  up  at  every  corner  and  spreads  itself 
across  the  squares  and  open  places.  Its  appearance  has 
changed.  It  is  no  longer  a  factory  population.  Women 

i  197 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

still  predominate,  but  they  are  the  women  of  the  pro 
fessions  and  trades  which  centre  about  Madison  Square 
—  business  women  of  independent  standing,  women 
from  the  magazine  offices,  the  publishing  houses,  the 
insurance  offices.  You  detect  the  bachelor  girl  in  the 
current  which  sets  in  toward  the  home  quarters  of 
the  undomesticated,  the  little  Bohemias,  the  foreign 
eating-places  whose  fixed  table  d'hote  prices  flash  out 
in  illumined  signs  from  the  side  streets.  Still  farther 
north  and  the  crowd  becomes  tinged  with  the  current 
of  that  Broadway  which  the  outside  world  knows  best. 
The  idlers  begin  to  mingle  with  the  workers,  men  in 
English  clothes  with  canes,  women  with  plumes  and 
jeweled  reticules.  You  catch  the  first  heart-beat  of 
Little  Old  New  York. 

The  first  stirrings  of  this  gayer  Broadway  die  down 
as  quickly  almost  as  they  manifested  themselves.  The 
idlers  and  those  who  minister  to  them  have  heard  the 
call  of  the  dinner  hour  and  have  vanished,  into  hotel 
doors,  into  shabbier  quarters  by  no  means  in  keeping 
with  the  cut  of  their  garments  and  their  apparent  in 
difference  to  useful  employment.  Soon  the  street  is 
almost  empty.  It  is  not  a  beautiful  Broadway  in  this 
garish  interval  between  the  last  of  the  matinee  and 
shopping  crowd  and  the  vanguard  of  the  night  crowd. 
The  monster  electric  sign-boards  have  not  begun  to 
gleam  and  flash  and  revolve  and  confound  the  eye  and 
the  senses.  At  night  the  electric  Niagara  hides  the 
[  198  ] 


THE  STREET 

squalid  fronts  of  ugly  brick,  the  dark  doorways,  the 
clutter  of  fire-escapes,  the  rickety  wooden  hoardings. 
Not  an  imperial  street  this  Broadway  at  6.30  of  a 
summer's  afternoon.  Cheap  jewelry  shops,  cheap  to 
bacconist's  shops,  cheap  haberdasheries,  cheap  res 
taurants,  grimy  little  newspaper  agencies  and  ticket- 
offices,  and  'demonstration'  stores  for  patent  foods, 
patent  waters,  patent  razors. 

O  Gay  White  Way,  you  are  far  from  gay  in  the  fast- 
fading  light,  before  the  magic  hand  of  Edison  wipes  the 
wrinkles  from  your  face  and  galvanizes  you  into  hectic 
vitality;  far  from  alluring  with  your  tinsel  shop  win 
dows,  with  your  puffy-faced,  unshaven  men  leaning 
against  door-posts  and  chewing  pessimistic  toothpicks, 
your  sharp-eyed  newsboys  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  the 
Tenderloin,  and  your  itinerant  women  whose  eyes  wan 
der  from  side  to  side.  It  is  not  in  this  guise  that  you 
draw  the  hearts  of  millions  to  yourself,  O  dingy,  Gay 
White  Way,  O  Via  Lobsteria  Dolorosa! 

Well,  when  a  man  begins  to  moralize  it  is  time  to  go 
home.  I  have  walked  farther  than  I  intended,  and  I 
am  soft  from  lack  of  exercise,  and  tired.  The  romance 
of  the  crowd  has  disappeared.  Romance  cannot  sur 
vive  that  short  passage  of  Longacre  Square,  where  the 
art  of  the  theatre  and  of  the  picture-postcard  flourish 
in  an  atmosphere  impregnated  with  gasolene.  As  I 
glance  into  the  windows  of  the  automobile  salesrooms 
and  catch  my  own  reflection  in  the  enamel  of  Babylon- 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

ian  limousines  I  find  myself  thinking  all  at  once  of  the 
children  at  home.  They  expand  and  fill  up  the  horizon. 
Broadway  disappears.  I  smile  into  the  face  of  a  painted 
promenader,  but  how  is  she  to  know  that  it  is  not  at 
her  I  smile  but  at  the  sudden  recollection  of  what  the 
baby  said  at  the  breakfast-table  that  morning?  Like 
all  good  New  Yorkers  when  they  enter  the  Subway,  I 
proceed  to  choke  up  all  my  senses  against  contact  with 
the  external  world,  and  thus  resolving  myself  into  a 
state  of  coma,  I  dip  down  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
whence  in  due  time  I  am  spewed  out  two  short  blocks 
from  Belshazzar  Court. 


Fashions  in  Men 

By  Katharine  Fullerton  Gerould 

NEVER,  I  fancy,  has  it  been  more  true  than  it  is  to-day, 
that  fiction  reflects  life.  The  best  fiction  has  always 
given  us  a  kind  of  precipitate  of  human  nature  —  Don 
Quixote  and  Tom  Jones  are  equally  '  true/  and  true,  in 
a  sense,  for  all  time;  but  our  modern  books  give  us 
every  quirk  and  turn  of  the  popular  ideal,  and  fifty 
years  hence,  if  read  at  all,  may  be  too  l quaint'  for 
words.  And  to  any  one  who  has  been  reading  fiction 
for  the  last  twenty  years,  it  is  cryingly  obvious  that 
fashions  in  human  nature  have  changed. 

My  first  novel  was  Jane  Eyre;  and  at  the  age  of 
eight,  I  fell  desperately  in  love  with  Fairfax  Rochester. 
No  instance  could  serve  better  to  point  the  distance 
we  have  come.  I  was  not  an  extraordinary  little  girl 
(except  that,  perhaps,  I  was  extraordinarily  fortunate 
in  being  permitted  to  encounter  the  classics  in  infancy), 
and  I  dare  say  that  if  I  had  not  met  Mr.  Rochester,  I 
should  have  succumbed  to  some  imaginary  gentleman 
of  a  quite  different  stamp.  It  may  be  that  I  should 
have  fallen  in  love  —  had  time  and  chance  permitted 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

—  with '  V.  V.'  or  The  Beloved  Vagabond.  But  I  doubt 
it.  In  the  first  place,  novels  no  longer  assume  that  it  is 
the  prime  business  of  the  female  heart  (at  whatever 
age)  to  surrender  itself  completely  to  some  man.  Con 
sequently,  the  men  in  the  novels  of  to-day  are  not  cal 
culated,  as  they  once  were,  to  hit  the  fluttering  mark. 
The  emotions  are  the  last  redoubt  to  be  taken,  as 
modern  tactics  direct  the  assault. 

People  are  always  telling  us  that  fashions  in  women 
have  changed :  what  seems  to  me  almost  more  interest 
ing  is  that  fashions  in  men  (the  stable  sex)  have  changed 
to  match.  The  new  woman  (by  which  I  mean  the  very 
newest)  would  not  fall  in  love  with  Mr.  Rochester.  It 
is  therefore  '  up  to  '  the  novelists  to  create  heroes  whom 
the  modern  heroine  will  fall  in  love  with.  This,  to  the 
popular  satisfaction,  they  have  done.  And  not  only  in 
fiction  have  the  men  changed;  in  life,  too,  the  men  of 
to-day  are  quite  different.  I  know,  because  my  friends 
marry  them. 

It  is  immensely  interesting,  this  difference.  One  by 
one,  the  man  has  sloughed  off  his  most  masculine  (as 
we  knew  them)  characteristics.  Gone  are  Mr.  Roches 
ter,  who  fought  the  duel  with  the  vicomte  at  dawn, 
and  Burgo  Fitzgerald  (the  only  love  of  that  incom 
parable  woman,  Lady  Glencora  Palliser),  who  break 
fasted  on  Curasao  and  pate  de  foie  gras.  No  longer 
does  Blanche  Ingram  declare,  'An  English  hero  of  the 
road  would  be  the  next  best  thing  to  an  Italian  bandit, 

[     202     ] 


FASHIONS  IN  MEN 

and  that  could  only  be  surpassed  by  a  Levantine 
pirate/  Blanche  Ingram  wants  —  and  gets  —  the 
Humanitarian  Hero;  some  one  who  has  particular  re 
spect  for  convicts  and  fallen  women,  and  whose  favor 
ite  author  is  Tolstoi.  He  must  qualify  for  the  possession 
of  her  hand  by  long,  voluntary  residence  in  the  slums; 
he  may  inherit  ancestral  acres  only  if  he  has,  concern 
ing  them,  socialistic  intentions.  He  must  be  too  altru 
istic  to  kill  grouse,  and  if  he  is  to  be  wholly  up-to-date, 
he  must  refuse  to  eat  them.  He  must  never  order '  pis 
tols  and  coffee ':  his  only  permitted  weapon  is  benevo 
lent  legislation. 

I  do  not  mean  that  he  is  to  be  a  milk-sop  —  'muscu 
lar  Christianity'  has  at  least  taught  us  that  it  is  well 
for  the  hero  to  be  in  the  pink  of  condition,  as  he  may 
any  day  have  a  street  fight  on  his  hands.  And  he 
should  have  the  tongue  of  men  and  of  angels.  Gone 
is  the  inarticulate  Guardsman  —  gone  forever.  The 
modern  hero  has  read  books  that  Burgo  Fitzgerald  and 
Guy  Livingstone  and  Mr.  Rochester  never  heard  of. 
He  is  ready  to  address  any  gathering,  and  to  argue 
with  any  antagonist,  until  dawn.  He  is,  preferably, 
personally  unconscious  of  sex  until  the  heroine  arrives ; 
but  he  is  by  no  means  effeminate.  He  is  a  very  com 
plicated  and  interesting  creature.  Some  mediaeval 
traits  are  discernible  in  him;  but  the  eighteenth  cen 
tury  would  not  have  known  him  for  human. 

What  has  he  lost,  this  hero,  and  what  has  he  gained? 
[  203  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

How  did  it  all  begin?  In  life,  doubtless,  it  began  with 
a  feminine  change  of  taste.  Brilliant  plumage  has 
ceased  to  allure;  and,  I  suspect,  the  peacock's  tail,  as 
much  as  the  anthropoid  ape's,  is  destined  to  elimina 
tion.  We  women  of  to-day  are  distrustful  of  the  pea 
cock's  tail.  We  are  mortally  afraid  of  being  misled  by 
it,  and  of  discovering,  too  late,  that  the  peacock's  soul 
is  not  quite  the  thing.  Never  has  there  been  among  the 
feminine  young  more  scientific  talk  about  sex,  and 
never  among  the  feminine  young  such  a  scientific  dis 
trust  of  it.  Before  a  young  woman  suspects  that  she 
wants  to  marry  a  young  man,  she  has  probably  dis 
cussed  with  him,  exhaustively,  the  penal  code,  white 
slavery,  eugenics,  and  race-suicide.  The  miracle  — 
the  everlasting  miracle  of  Nature  —  is  that  she  should 
want,  in  these  circumstances,  to  marry  him  at  all.  She 
probably  does  not,  unless  his  views  have  been  wholly 
to  her  satisfaction.  And  with  those  views,  what  has 
the  perpetual  glory  of  the  peacock's  tail  to  do? 

So  much  for  life.  In  our  English  fiction,  I  am  in 
clined  to  believe  that  George  Eliot  began  it  with  Dan 
iel  Deronda.  But,  in  our  own  day,  Meredith  did  more. 
Up  to  the  time  of  Meredith,  the  dominant  male  was 
the  fashionable  hero.  Tom  Jones,  and  Sir  Charles 
Grandison,  and  Fairfax  Rochester,  and  ' Stunning' 
Warrington  are  as  different  as  possible;  but  all  of  them, 
in  their  several  ways,  keep  up  one  male  tradition  in 
fiction.  It  is  within  our  own  day  that  that  tradition 
[  204  ] 


FASHIONS  IN  MEN 

has  entirely  changed.  Have  you  ever  noticed  how 
inveterately,  in  Meredith's  novels,  the  schoolmaster 
or  his  spiritual  kinsman  comes  out  on  top?  Lord  Or- 
mont  cannot  stand  against  Matey  Weyburn,  Lord 
Fleetwood  against  Owain  Wythan,  Sir  Willoughby 
Patterne  against  Vernon  Whitford.  The  little  girl 
who  fell  in  love  with  Mr.  Rochester  would  have  pre 
ferred  any  one  of  these  gentlemen  (yes,  even  Sir  Wil 
loughby  !)  to  his  rival ;  but  I  dare  say  the  event  would 
have  proved  her  wrong.  Certainly  the  wisdom  of  the 
ladies'  choice  was  never  doubtful  to  Meredith  himself. 
The  soldier  and  the  aristocrat  cannot  endure  the  test 
they  are  put  to  by  the  sympathetic  male  with  a  pen 
chant  for  the  enfranchised  woman.  Vain  for  Lord 
Ormont  to  accede  to  Aminta's  taste  for  publicity;  vain 
for  Lord  Fleetwood  to  become  the  humble  wooer  of 
Carinthia  Jane:  each  has  previously  been  convicted 
of  pride. 

Now,  in  an  earlier  day,  no  woman  would  have  looked 
at  a  man  who  was  not  proud  —  who  was  not,  even,  a 
little  too  proud.  Pride,  by  which  Lucifer  fell,  was  the 
chief  hall-mark  of  the  gentleman.  Moreover,  in  that 
earlier  day,  women  did  not  expect  their  heroes  to  ex 
plain  everything  to  them:  a  certain  amount  of  reti 
cence,  a  measure  of  silence,  was  also  one  of  the  hall 
marks  of  the  gentleman.  If  a  bit  of  mystery  could  be 
thrown  in,  so  much  the  better.  It  gave  her  something 
to  exercise  her  imagination  on.  Think  of  the  Byronic 
[  205  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

males  —  Conrad,  Lara,  and  the  rest!  If  they  had  told 
all,  where  would  they  have  been?  Think  of  Lovelace 
and  Heathcote  and  Darcy  and  Brian  de  Bois  Guil- 
bert! 

Heroes,  once,  were  always  disdaining  to  speak,  and 
spurning  their  foes.  Nowadays,  no  hero  disdains  to 
speak,  and  no  hero  ventures  to  spurn  anyone  —  least 
of  all,  his  foes.  He  is  humble  of  heart  and  very  loqua 
cious.  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  has  inherited  from  George 
Eliot;  and  the  latest  heroes  of  Mr.  Galsworthy  and 
Mr.  Hewlett,  for  example,  are  the  children  of  Vernon 
Whitford,  Matey  Weyburn,  and  Owain  Wythan  (of 
whom  it  is  not  explicitly  written  that  they  had  any 
others).  They  are  humanitarian  and  democratic; 
they  are  ignorant  of  hatred;  they  are  inclined  to 
think  the  ill-born  necessarily  better  than  the  well 
born;  and  they  are  quite  sure  that  women  are  superior 
to  men.  True,  Mr.  Galsworthy  always  seems  to  be 
looking  backward;  he  never  forgets  the  ancient  tradi- 
dition  that  he  is  combating.  His  young  aristocrats 
who  eschew  the  ways  of  aristocracy  are  unhappy,  and 
virtue  in  their  case  is  'its  only  reward.'  Perhaps  that 
is  why  his  novels  always  leave  us  with  the  medicinal 
taste  of  inconclusion  in  our  mouths.  But  take  a  hand 
ful  of  heroes  elsewhere:  the  Reverend  John  Hodder, 
the  ex-convict, ' Daniel  Smith/  'V.  V.',  or  even  Cory- 
ston,  the  Socialist  peer.  Where,  in  the  lot  of  them  do 
you  find  either  pride  or  reticence  in  the  old  sense? 

206 


FASHIONS  IN  MEN 

Where,  in  any  one  of  them,  do  you  find  the  Satanic 
charm?  Which  one  would  Harriet  Byron,  or  Jane 
Eyre,  or  Catherine  Earnshaw,  or  Elizabeth  Bennett, 
have  looked  at  with  eyes  of  love? 

The  '  Satanic  charm.'  The  phrase  is  out.  Milton, 
I  suspect,  is  responsible  for  the  tradition  that  has 
lasted  so  long,  and  is  now  being  broken  utterly  to 
pieces.  Milton  made  Satan  delightful,  and  our  good 
Protestant  novelists  for  a  long  time  followed  his  lead, 
in  that  they  gave  their  delightful  men  some  of  the 
Satanic  traits.  Proud  they  were  and  scornfully  silent, 
as  we  have  recalled;  and  conventional  to  the  last  de 
gree.  '  Conventional/  that  is,  in  the  stricter  sense;  by 
which  it  is  not  meant  that  as  portraits  they  were  un 
convincing,  or  that,  as  men,  they  never  offended  Mrs. 
Grundy.  They  were  conventional  in  that  they  fol 
lowed  a  convention;  in  that  they  were,  to  a  large  ex 
tent,  predicable.  They  were  jealous  of  their  honor,  and 
believed  it  vindicable  by  the  duel;  they  had  no  doubt 
that  good  women  were  better  than  bad,  and  that  pedi 
gree  in  human  beings  was  as  important  as  pedigree  in 
animals;  and  though  they  might  be  quixotic  on  occa 
sion,  they  were  not  democratic  pour  deux  sous.  The 
barmaid  was  not  their  sister,  nor  the  stevedore  their 
brother.  (The  Satan  of  Paradise  Lost,  as  we  all  re 
member,  was  a  splendid  snob.) 

Moreover,  they  were  sophisticated  --  and  not 
merely  out  of  books.  The  Faust  idea,  having  pre- 
[  207  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

vailed  for  many  centuries,  has  at  last  been  abandoned 
—  and  perhaps,  our  sober  sense  may  tell  us,  rightly; 
but  not  so  long  ago  there  was  still  something  more 
repellent  to  the  female  imagination  about  the  man 
who  chose  not  to  know  than  about  the  man  who 
chose  not  to  abstain.  I  do  not  mean  that  we  were 
supposed  always  to  be  looking  for  a  Tom  Jones  or  a 
Roderick  Random  —  we  might  be  looking  for  a  Sir 
Charles  Grandison,  no  less;  but  at  least,  when  we  found 
our  hero,  we  expected  to  find  him  wiser  than  we.  Now 
adays,  a  girl  rather  likes  to  give  a  man  points  —  and 
often  (in  fiction,  at  least)  has  to.  Meredith  railed 
against  the  'veiled  virginal  doll'  as  heroine.  Well: 
our  heroines  now  are  never  veiled  virginal  dolls; 
but  sometimes  our  heroes  are.  Lancelot  has  gone 
out,  and  Galahad  has  come  in.  I  suspect  that  there 
is  a  literary  law  of  compensation,  and  that,  Ib 
sen  and  Strindberg  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding, 
there  has  to  be  a  veiled  virginal  doll  somewhere  in  a 
really  taking  romance.  Perhaps  it  is  fair  that  the 
sterner  sex  should  have  its  turn  at  guarding  ideals 
by  the  hearthstone,  while  women  make  the  grand 
tour. 

Let  me  not  be  misunderstood.  I  am  not  referring 
particularly  to  that  knowledge  which  any  man  is  better 
without,  but  to  the  Odyssean  experience  which,  in 
their  respective  measures,  heroes  were  wont  to  have 
behind  them:  — 

f   208   1 


FASHIONS  IN  MEN 

And  saw  the  cities,  and  the  counsels  knew 

Of  many  men,  and  many  a  time  at  sea 
Within  his  heart  he  bore  calamity. 

They  had  at  least  seen  the  towns  and  the  minds  of  men, 
and  their  morals  were  the  less  likely  to  be  upset  by  a 
conventional  assault  upon  them.  Does  any  one  chance 
to  remember,  I  wonder,  Theron  Ware,  led  to  his  '  dam 
nation'  by  his  first  experience  of  a  Chopin  nocturne? 
It  would  have  taken  more  than  a  Chopin  nocturne  to 
make  any  of  our  seasoned  heroes  do  something  that  he 
did  not  wish  to.  They  knew  something  of  society,  and 
ergo  of  women;  they  had  experienced,  directly  or  vi 
cariously,  human  romance ;  and  they  had  read  history. 
Nowadays,  they  are  apt  to  know  little  or  nothing  —  to 
begin  with  —  of  society,  women,  or  romance,  except 
what  may  be  got  from  brand-new  books  on  sociology; 
and  they  pride  themselves  on  knowing  no  history. 
History,  with  its  eternal  stresses  and  selections,  is 
nothing  if  not  aristocratic,  and  our  heroes  nowadays 
must  be  democratic  or  they  die.  It  is  an  age  of  com 
plete  faith  in  the  superiority  of  the  lower  classes  —  the 
swing  of  the  pendulum,  no  doubt,  from  the  other  ex 
treme  of  thinking  the  lower  classes  morally  and  aestheti 
cally  negligible.  '  Privilege'  is  as  detestable  now  in 
matters  of  intellect  and  breeding  as  in  matters  of  fi 
nance  and  politics.  The  man  with  the  muck-rake  has 
got  past  the  office  into  the  drawing-room.  If  your  hero 
[  209  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

has  the  bad  luck  not  to  have  been  born  in  the  slums,  he 
must  at  least  have  the  wit  to  take  up  his  habitation 
there  as  soon  as  he  comes  of  age.  We  have  learned  that 
riches  are  corrupting,  but  (except  in  the  special  sense 
of  vice-commission  reports)  we  have  not  yet  learned 
that  poverty  is  rather  more  corrupting  than  wealth. 

Sophistication,  whether  social,  intellectual,  or  aes 
thetic,  is  now  the  deadly  sin.  If  we  are  sophisticated, 
we  may  not  be  good  enough  for  Ellis  Island.  And  there 
goes  another  of  the  hallmarks  of  the  gentleman  as  he 
was  once  known  to  fiction.  Our  hero  in  old  days  might 
not  have  condescended  to  the  glittering  assemblies  of 
fashion,  but  there  was  never  any  doubt  that,  if  he  had, 
he  would,  in'spite  of  himself,  have  been  king  of  his  com 
pany  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  room.  He  might  have 
been  hard  up,  but  his  necktie  would  not  have  been  l  a 
black  sea  holding  for  life  a  school  of  fat  white  fish.'  He 
might  have  been  lonely  or  gloomy,  but  he  would  not 
have  been  diffident,  and  he  would  never,  never,  never 
have  ' blinked'  at  the  heroine.  'My  godlike  friend  had 
carelessly  put  his  hair-brush  into  the  butter/  says 
Asticot,  at  the  outset,  of  the  Beloved  Vagabond.  Now 
in  picaresque  novels,  we  were  always  meeting  people 
who  did  that  sort  of  thing;  but  they  were  not  gentle 
men.  Whereas,  the  Beloved  Vagabond  is  of  noble  birth, 
and  despite  his  ten  years'  abeyance,  finds  the  countess 
quite  ready  to  marry  him.  She  does  not  marry  him  in 
the  end,  to  be  sure,  but  we  are  permitted  to  feel  that 

[     210     ] 


FASHIONS  IN  MEN 

there  was  something  lacking  in  her  because  Paragot's 
manners  at  tea  did  not  please  her. 

The  hero  of  old  had  what  used  to  be  called  'a  sense 
of  fitness/  and  a  saving  sense  of  humor,  which  com 
bined  to  prevent  his  entering  a  ballroom  as  John  the 
Baptist.  The  same  lucky  combination  would  have 
prevented  him  —  in  literature,  at  least  —  from  wooing 
the  millionaire's  child  with  dusty  commonplaces  of  the 
Higher  Criticism  or  jeremiads  against  the  daughters  of 
Heth.  But  perhaps  millionaires'  children  to-day  take 
that  sort  of  thing  for  manners.  To  the  argument  that 
a  performance  of  the  kind  takes  courage,  one  can  only 
reply  that,  judging  from  the  enthusiasm  with  which 
the  preaching  hero  is  received  by  the  heroine,  it  appar 
ently  does  not.  And  in  any  case,  the  hero  is  too  sub 
limely  ignorant  of  what  socially  constitutes  courage  to 
deserve  any  credit  for  it. 

Sometimes,  of  course,  like  Mr.  Galsworthy's  men,  he 
perceives,  with  some  inherited  sense,  that  his  kind  of 
thing  is  not  likely  to  be  welcomed;  and  then  he  goes 
sadly  and  sternly  away,  leaving  the  girl  to  accept  a 
wooer  with  more  technique.  But  usually  he  cuts  out 
everybody,  For  the  chief  hall-mark  of  a  gentleman, 
now,  is  the  desire  to  reform  his  own  class  out  of  all 
recognition. 

Women,  as  we  know,  have  long  wanted  to  be  talked 
to  as  if  they  were  men;  and  the  result  is  that  heroines 
now  let  themselves  be  lectured  at  in  a  way  that  very 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

few  men  would  endure.  Alison  Parr  marries  the  Rev. 
John  Hodder,  and  Carlisle  Heth  would  have  married 
V.  V.  if  he  had  lived.  Well:  Clara  Middleton  married 
Vernon  Whitford,  and  Carinthia  Jane  married  Owain 
Wythan,  and  Aminta  married  Matey  Weyburn. 

I  may  have  seemed  to  be  speaking  cynically.  That, 
I  can  give  my  word  of  honor,  I  am  not.  It  is  well  that 
we  have  come  to  realize  that  there  are  some  adventures 
which,  in  themselves,  add  no  lustre  to  a  man's  name. 
It  is  well  that  we  take  thought  for  the  lower  strata  of 
humanity  —  though  our  actual  reforms,  I  fancy,  show 
their  authors  as  taking  thought  not  for  to-morrow  but 
for  to-day.  Certainly  brutality,  or  the  indifference 
which  is  negative  brutality,  is  not  a  beautiful  or  a  moral 
thing;  and  certainly  we  do  not  particularly  sympathize 
with  Thackeray  shedding  tears  as  he  went  away  from 
his  publishers  because  they  had  obliged  him  to  save 
Pendennis's  chastity.  That  dreadful  person,  Arthur 
Pendennis,  would  surely  not  have  been  made  any 
less  dreadful  by  being  permitted  to  seduce  Fanny 
Bolton. 

It  is  right  to  think  of  the  poor;  it  is  right  to  bend  our 
energies,  as  citizens,  to  the  economic  bettering  of  their 
lot.  No  one  could  sanely  regret  our  doing  so.  But  there 
is  always  danger  in  saying  the  thing  which  is  not,  and 
in  pretending  that  because  some  virtues  have  hitherto 
not  been  recognized,  the  virtues  that  have  been  recog 
nized  are  no  good.  One  sympathizes  with  Towneley 


FASHIONS  IN  MEN 

(in  that  incomparable  novel  The  Way  of  All  Flesh) 
when  Ernest  asks  him,  - 

'" Don't  you  like  poor  people  very  much  yourself?" 

'  Towneley  gave  his  face  a  comical  but  good-natured 
screw  and  said  quietly,  but  slowly  and  decidedly,  "No, 
no,  no,"  and  escaped. 

'  Of  course,  some  poor  people  were  very  nice,  and  al 
ways  would  be  so,  but  as  though  scales  had  fallen  sud 
denly  from  his  eyes  he  saw  that  no  one  was  nicer  for 
being  poor,  and  that  between  the  upper  and  lower 
classes  there  was  a  gulf  which  amounted  practically  to 
an  impassable  barrier/ 

It  is  a  great  pity  that  Samuel  Butler  did  not  live 
longer  and  write  more  novels.  But  in  regretting  him, 
we  shall  do  well  to  remember  that  though  publication 
was  delayed  until  some  time  after  the  author's  death, 
the  bulk  of  The  Way  of  All  Flesh  was  written  in  the 
'yo's.  The  Way  of  All  Flesh  is  not  sympathetic  to  the 
contemporary  mood;  it  is  one  of  those  books  so  much 
ahead  of  its  time  (except  perhaps  in  ecclesiastical 
matters)  that  the  time  has  not  yet  caught  up  with  it. 
It  was  doomed  inevitably  to  an  interval  of  oblivion. 
The  case  reminds  one  of  Richard  Feverel. 

Only  in  one  way  is  The  Way  of  All  Flesh  quite  con 
temporary.  The  hero  thinks  so  well  of  the  prostitute 
that  he  marries  her.  On  the  other  hand,  to  be  sure,  he 
bitterly  regrets  it,  which  is  not  contemporary.  I  do  not 
mean  that  the  hero's  marrying  her  is  especially  in  the 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

literary  fashion,  but  his  thinking  well  of  her  is.  You 
will  notice  that  in  our  moral  fever  we  do  not  leave  the 
prostitute  out  of  our  novels  —  no,  indeed:  she  must  be 
there  to  give  spice,  as  of  old.  Only  now,  instead  of  be 
ing  entangled  with  her,  the  young  gentleman  preaches 
to  her;  and  she  loves  him  for  it.  Perhaps  this  is  what 
happens  nowadays  in  real  life.  I  do  not  pretend  to 
know;  but  I  suspect  it  is  true,  for  I  fancy  the  only  kind 
of  person  who  could  invent  the  contemporary  plot  is 
the  kind  who  would  live  it.  The  wildest  imaginings 
of  the  people  who  are  made  differently  would  hardly 
stretch  to  it.  And  not  only  does  the  hero  find  himself 
immensely  touched  by  the  tragedy  of  the  disreputable 
woman,  —  which  is,  after  all,  in  certain  cases  plausible 
enough,  —  he  burns  to  introduce  his  fiancee  to  her. 
Now  that,  again,  may  be  life,  —  Mr.  Winston  Church 
ill,  for  example,  should  know  better  than  I,  —  but  it  is 
certainly  a  world  with  the  sense  of  values  gone  wrong. 
And  when  we  have  lost  our  sense  of  values,  we  shall 
presently  lose  the  values  as  well.  The  girl  herself  is 
often  to  blame:  did  not  the  fiancee  of  Simon  de  Gex  go 
of  her  own  initiative  to  see  the  animal-tamer,  and  come 
away  to  renounce  him,  convinced  that  the  animal- 
tamer  was  the  nobler  woman?  Which,  emphatically, 
she  was  not.  But  then,  as  we  know  from  long  experi 
ence  of  Mr.  Locke,  he  cannot  keep  his  head  with  circus- 
people  about;  and  sawdust  is  incense  to  him.  Let 
Mr.  Locke  have  his  little  foibles  by  all  means;  but  even 

I  «4  J 


FASHIONS  IN  MEN 

Mr.  Locke  should  not  have  made  the  spoiled  darling  of 
society  marry  the  animal-tamer  (one  side  of  her  face 
having  been  nearly  clawed  off)  and  then  go  with  her 
into  city  missionary  work.  Yet  I  do  not  believe  it  is 
really  Mr.  Locke's  fault.  The  public  at  present  loves 
as  a  sister  the  woman  with  a  past;  and  loves  city  mis 
sionary  work,  if  possible,  more. 

The  fact  is  that  with  all  our  imitation  of  Meredith  — 
and  every  one  who  is  not  imitating  Tolstoi  is  imitating 
Meredith  —  he  has  failed  to  save  us.  We  have  taken 
all  his  prescriptions  blindly  —  except  one.  We  have 
emancipated  our  women  and  emasculated  our  men;  we 
have  cast  down  the  mighty  from  their  seats  and  exalted 
them  of  low  degree;  we  have  learned  all  the  Radical 
shibboleths  and  say  them  for  our  morning  prayers;  and 
we  have  faced  the  fact  of  sex  so  squarely  that  we  can 
hardly  see  anything  else.  But  we  have  not  learned  his 
saving  hatred  of  the  sentimentalist.  Miss  May  Sinclair 
has  admirably  pointed  out  in  her  study  of  the  Three 
Brontes  that  Charlotte  Bronte  was  exceedingly  modern 
in  her  detestation  of  sentimentality.  Modern  she  may 
have  been  —  with  Meredith;  but  not  modern  with  the 
present  novelists,  for  they  are  almost  too  sentimental 
to  be  endured.  And  there  is  the  whole  trouble.  We 
think  Thackeray  an  old  fool  for  being  sentimental  over 
Amelia  Sedley;  but  how  does  it  better  the  case  to  be 
sentimental,  instead,  over  the  heroine  of  The  Promised 
Land  ?  Amelia  Sedley  was  all  in  all  a  much  nicer  person, 

i  215  i 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

if  not  half  so  clever.  She  may  have  sniveled  a  good 
deal,  but  she  was  capable  of  loving  some  one  else 
better  than  herself. 

Of  course,  I  have  cited  only  a  few  instances  —  those 
that  happened  to  come  most  easily  to  mind.  But  let  any 
reader  of  fiction  run  over  mentally  a  group  of  contem 
porary  heroes,  and  see  if  the  substitutions  I  have  named 
have  not  pretty  generally  taken  place.  Has  not  pride 
given  way  to  humility,  reticence  to  glibness,  class- 
consciousness  to  a  wild  democracy,  the  code  of  manners 
to  an  uncouth  unworldliness,  and  honor  in  the  old 
sense  to  a  burning  passion  for  reform  —  '  any  old '  re 
form?  Do  not  these  men  lead  us  into  the  heterogeneous 
company  of  the  unclassed  of  both  sexes — and  ask  us  to 
look  upon  them  as  saints  in  motley?  Has  not  the  world 
of  fiction  changed  in  the  last  twenty  years?  The  hero 
in  old  days  sometimes  fell  foul  of  the  law  by  getting 
into  debt.  But  we  were  not  supposed,  therefore,  to  be 
on  his  side  against  the  law.  Now,  the  hero  does  not, 
perhaps,  get  into  legal  difficulties  himself,  but  he  is  al 
ways  passionately  on  the  side  of  the  people  whom  laws 
were  devised  to  protect  the  respectable  from.  The 
scientific  tendency  to  consider  that  aristocracy  consists 
merely  in  freedom  from  certain  physical  taints  has  per 
meated  fiction.  'Is  not  one  man  as  good  as  another?' 
asked  the  demagogue.  '  Of  course  he  is,  and  a  great  deal 
better! '  replied  the  excited  Irishman  in  the  crowd.  We 
are  in  the  thick  of  a  popular  mania  for  thinking  all  the 

216 


FASHIONS  IN  MEN 

undesirables  'a  good  deal  better.'  The  modern  hero  is, 
to  my  mind,  in  intention,  if  not  in  execution,  an  ad 
mirable  figure;  and  though  one  rather  expects  him  any 
day  to  give  his  whole  fortune  for  a  gross  of  green  specta 
cles,  one  will  not,  for  that,  find  him  any  less  likable. 
Some  day  he  will  rediscover  the  Dantesque  hierarchy 
of  souls  implicit  in  humanity.  And  then,  perhaps,  he 
will  get  back  his  charm. 

Some  one  is  probably  bursting  to  observe  that  we 
have  a  school  of  realists  at  hand ;  and  that  no  one  can 
accuse  Mr.  Wells  and  Mr.  Bennett  of  sentimentality  — 
also  that  we  have  Mr.  Shaw  and  Mr.  Granville  Barker 
and  Mr.  Masefield  as  mounted  auxiliaries  in  the  field. 
I  grant  Mr.  Bennett;  I  am  not  so  sure  about  Mr.  Wells. 
But  certainly  Mr.  Wells  is  not  sentimental  as  Mr. 
William  de  Morgan,  Mr.  Winston  Churchill,  Mr. 
Meredith  Nicholson,  Mr.  Theodore  Dreiser,  Mr.  H.  S. 
Harrison,  and  Miss  Ellen  Glasgow  are  sentimental.  If 
he  is  sentimental  at  all,  it  is  rather  over  ideas  than  peo 
ple.  (Mr.  Masefield,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  is  simply 
catering  to  the  special  audience  that  Thomas  Hardy, 
by  his  silence,  has  left  gaping  and  empty.)  Let  us  look 
into  the  matter  a  little.  'Sentimental'  is  one  of  the 
most  difficult  catchwords  in  the  world  to  define;  and 
you  can  get  a  roomful  of  intelligent  people  quarreling 
over  it  any  time.  Perhaps,  for  our  purposes,  it  will 
serve  merely  to  say  that  the  sentimentalist  is  always,  in 
one  way  or  another,  disloyal  to  facts.  He  cannot  be 

t  217 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

trusted  to  give  a  straight  account,  because  his  own 
sense  of  things  is  more  valuable  to  him  than  the  truth. 
He  has  come  in  on  the  top  of  the  pragmatic  wave,  and 
the  sands  of  Anglo-Saxondom  are  strewn  thick  with 
him.  He  serves,  in  Kipling's  phrase,  the  God  of  Things 
as  They  Ought  to  Be  (according  to  his  private  feeling). 
His  own  perversion  may  be  aesthetic,  or  intellectual,  or 
moral,  or  sociological,  but  he  is  always  recognizable  by 
his  tampering  with  truth. 

Now,  Mr.  Wells  does  tamper  with  truth.  He  did  it, 
for  example,  in  the  case  of  Ann  Veronica.  He  wanted 
Ann  Veronica  to  be  a  nice  girl  under  twenty,  and  he 
wanted  her,  even  more,  to  be  unduly  awakened  to  cer 
tain  physical  aspects  of  sex.  It  was  sentimentality 
that  made  him  draw  her  as  he  did:  determination  to 
prove  that  the  girl  who  loved  as  he  wanted  her  to  love 
was  just  as  conventional  as  any  one  else.  You  cannot 
have  your  cake  and  eat  it  too;  but  the  sentimentalist 
blindly  refuses  to  accept  that.  Accordingly,  we  get  the 
unconvincing  creature  that  Mr.  Wells  wanted  to  be 
lieve  existed.  Mr.  Wells's  heroes  may  not  seem  to 
bear  out  my  argument  so  well  as  Mr.  Galsworthy's. 
To  be  sure,  Mr.  Wells  is  not  so  sentimental  as  Mr. 
Galsworthy,  and  he  has  not,  like  the  author  of  The 
Man  of  Property,  and  Fraternity,  and  Justice,  one  — 
just  one  —  fixed  idea.  Mr.  Galsworthy  always  deals 
with  a  man  who  is  in  love  with  some  other  man's 
wife;  and  his  world  is  thereby  narrowed.  Mr.  Wells 

1 218 1 


FASHIONS  IN  MEN 

is  interested  in  a  good  many  things,  and  his  politics 
are  not  purely  philanthropic  as  most  of  our  novel 
ists'  politics  are.  But  Mr.  Wells's  heroes,  even  when 
they  are  fairly  fortunate,  are  preoccupied  with  their 
own  notions  of  sociological  duty,  even  more  than  they 
are  preoccupied  with  passion,  though  their  passion  is 
'  special '  enough  when  it  comes.  Would  any  one  except 
a  Wells  hero  take  a  trip  to  India  and  come  away  having 
seen  nothing  but  the  sweat-shops  of  Bombay?  Always 
the  author's  sympathy  is  with  the  under  dog;  whether 
it  is  Kipps  or  Mr.  Polly  living  out  his  long  foredoomed 
existence,  or  George  Ponderevo  analyzing  Bladesover 
with  diabolic  keenness  and  aching  contempt.  'I'm  a 
spiritual  guttersnipe  in  love  with  unimaginable  god 
desses,'  says  Ponderevo  in  a  burst  of  frankness.  There 
you  have  the  Wells  hero  to  the  life.  And  Mr.  Bennett's 
people  are  only  spiritual  guttersnipes  who  are  not  in 
love  with  unimaginable  goddesses. 

The  point  is  that  the  guttersnipe  is  having  his  turn 
in  fiction :  if  our  American  heroes  are  not  guttersnipes 
themselves,  it  is  their  sign  of  grace  to  be  supremely 
interested  in  guttersnipes.  In  one  way  or  the  other, 
the  guttersnipe  must  have  his  proper  prominence.  Of 
course,  there  are  differences  and  degrees:  a  few  heroes 
get  no  nearer  the  lower  classes  than  a  passionate  desire 
for  reform  tickets  and  municipal  sanitation.  But 
ordinarily  they  must  go  through  Ernest  Pontifex's 
state  of  believing  that  poor  people  are  not  only  more 

1 219 ) 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

important,  but  in  every  way  nicer  than  rich  people; 
and  few  of  them  go  back  utterly  on  that  belief,  as 
Ernest  did.  Perhaps  that,  more  than  anything  else, 
marks  the  change  of  fashion  in  men.  For  gentlemen 
were  always,  in  their  way,  benevolent;  but  formerly 
they  had  not  achieved  the  paradox  that  the  object  of 
benevolence  is  ex  officio  more  interesting  than  the 
bestower. 

Books  have  been  written  before  now  in  the  interest 
of  reform.  They  tell  us  that  Justice  set  the  Home 
Secretary  to  thinking.  Well:  Marcus  Clarke  actually 
caused  the  reform  of  the  Australian  penal  settlements 
by  his  now  forgotten  novel,  For  the  Term  of  His  Natural 
Life.  The  hero  of  Marcus  Clarke's  book  was  innocent 
and  unjustly  condemned;  the  hero  of  Justice  is  guilty. 
Wanton  cruelty  is  wicked  whether  the  victim  be  a  bad 
man  or  a  good  one;  but  the  difference  between  these 
two  heroes  is  not  so  purely  accidental  as,  at  first  blush, 
it  may  seem.  The  author  of  His  Natural  Life  starting 
out  to  capture  sympathy,  showed  the  brutal  system 
wreaking  itself  on  an  innocent  man,  of  good  family, 
condemned  for  another's  guilt.  Mr.  Galsworthy, 
equally  eager  to  capture  sympathy,  makes  his  protag 
onist  guilty  of  the  theft,  having  tried  in  vain  to  incrim 
inate  an  innocent  person.  Each  writer  depended, 
doubtless,  on  public  sentiment  for  his  effect.  In  Marcus 
Clarke's  time,  public  sentiment  —  however  unfortu 
nate  the  fact  may  be  —  simply  could  not  have  been 

[     220     ] 


FASHIONS  IN  MEN 

aroused  to  such  a  pitch  by  the  sufferings  of  a  liar  and  a 
thief  as  by  the  sufferings  of  an  innocent  man  who  is 
consciously  paying  another  person's  penalty.  The 
Humanitarian  Hero  had  not  come  into  fashion  —  nor 
yet  the  guttersnipe.  But  Marcus  Clarke's  book  did  its 
work  —  proof  that  even  in  the  '50*3  we  were  not  so 
callous  as  we  seemed. 

I  said  earlier  that  in  life,  as  well  as  in  literature,  men 
had  changed.  One's  instances,  obviously,  must  be 
from  books,  and  not  from  one's  acquaintance;  but  I 
spoke  truth.  Philanthropy  is  the  latest  social  ladder, 
but  it  would  not  be  so  if  the  people  on  the  top  rung 
were  not  interested  in  philanthropy.  There  has  been, 
for  whatever  reason,  a  tremendous  spurt  of  interest  in 
sociological  questions.  Our  hard-headed  young  men, 
of  high  ideals,  find  themselves  fighting,  of  necessity, 
on  a  different  battlefield  from  any  that  strategists 
would  have  chosen  thirty  years  ago.  Moreover,  phil 
anthropy  being  woman's  way  into  politics,  women 
have  been  giving  their  calm,  or  hysterical,  attention  to 
problems  which,  thirty  years  since,  did  not,  as  prob 
lems,  exist  for  them.  I  said  that  the  change  of  taste  in 
women  would  probably  account  for  much  of  the  change 
of  fashion  in  men.  A  schoolmate  of  mine,  writing  me 
some  years  since  of  her  engagement,  said  (in  nearly 
these  words),  'He  is  tremendously  interested  in  city 
missionary  work;  it  would  n't  have  been  quite  perfect 
if  we  had  n't  had  that  in  common.'  Both  were  spoiled 
f  221  1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

darlings  of  fortune,  but  the  statement  was  quite  sin 
cere.  Undoubtedly,  without  that,  it  would  not  have 
been  'quite  perfect'  in  the  eyes  of  either. 

The  mere  conversation  of  the  marriageable  young 
has  changed  past  belief.  'Social  service'  has  usurped 
so  many  subjects !  Have  many  people  stopped  to  real 
ize,  I  wonder,  how  completely  the  psychological  novel 
and  the  'problem'  play  (in  the  old  sense)  have  gone 
out  of  date?  The  psychology  of  hero  and  heroine,  their 
emotional  attitudes  to  each  other,  are  largely  worked 
out  now  in  terms  of  their  attitudes  to  impersonal  ques 
tions,  their  religious  or  their  sociological  'principles.' 
The  individual  personal  reaction  counts  less  and  less. 
If  they  agree  on  the  same  panacea  for  the  social  evils, 
the  author  can  usually  patch  up  a  passion  sufficient 
for  them  to  marry  on.  Gone,  for  the  most  part,  are 
the  pages  of  intimate  analysis.  No  intimate  analysis 
is  needed  any  longer.  As  for  the  'problem  play,'  we 
have  it  still  with  us,  but  in  another  form.  The  Doll's 
House  and  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray  are  both  anti 
quated:  we  do  not  call  a  drama  a  problem  play  now 
unless  it  preaches  a  new  kind  of  legislation.  And  as 
for  sex,  —  in  its  finer  aspects  it  no  longer  interests  us. 

There  was  a  great  deal  more  sex,  in  its  subtler  mani 
festations,  in  the  old  novels  and  plays,  than  in  the  new 
ones.  Not  so  long  ago,  a  novel  was  a  love-story;  and  it 
was  of  supreme  importance  to  a  hero  whether  or  not 
he  could  make  the  heroine  care  for  him.  It  was  also  of 

[     222     ] 


FASHIONS  IN  MEN 

supreme  importance  to  the  heroine.  The  romance  was 
all  founded  on  sex;  and  yet  sex  was  hardly  mentioned. 
Our  heroes  and  heroines  still  marry;  but  when  they 
consider  sex  at  all,  they  are  apt  to  consider  it  biolog 
ically,  not  romantically.  We,  as  a  public,  are  more 
frankly  interested  in  sex  than  ever;  but  we  think  of  it 
objectively,  and  a  little  brutally,  in  terms  of  demand 
and  supply.  And  so  we  get  often  the  pathetic  spectacle 
of  the  hero  and  heroine  having  no  time  to  make  love  to 
each  other  in  the  good  old-fashioned  way,  because  they 
are  so  busy  suppressing  the  red-light  district  and  com 
piling  statistics  of  disease.  Much  of  the  frankness, 
doubtless,  is  a  good  thing;  but  beyond  a  doubt,  it  has 
cheapened  passion.  For  passion  among  civilized  peo 
ple  is  a  subtle  thing:  it  is  wrapped  about  with  dreams 
and  imaginings;  and  can  bring  human  beings  to  salva 
tion  as  well  as  to  perdition.  But  when  it  is  shown  to  us 
as  the  mere  province  of  courtesans,  small  wonder  that 
we  turn  from  it  to  the  hero  who  will  have  difficulty  in 
feeling  or  inspiring  it.  Especially  since  we  are  told,  at 
the  same  time,  that  even  the  courtesan  plies  her  trade 
only  from  direst  necessity. 

After  all,  the  only  safe  person  to  fall  in  love  with 
nowadays  is  a  reformer:  socially,  financially,  and  senti 
mentally.  And  most  women,  at  least,  could  (if  they 
would)  say  with  the  Princesse  Mathilde,  'Je  n'aime 
que  les  romans  dont  je  voudrais  £tre  1'heroine.'  Cer 
tainly,  unless  for  some  special  reason,  no  novel  of 

[  223 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

which  one  would  not  like  to  be  the  heroine  —  in  love 
with  the  hero  —  will  reach  the  hundred  thousand 
mark.  If  there  are  any  of  us  left  who  regret  the  gentle 
men  of  old  —  who  still  prefer  our  Darcy  or  even  our 
Plantagenet  Palliser  —  we  must  write  our  own  novels, 
and  divine  our  own  heroes  under  the  protective  color 
ing  of  their  conventional  breeding.  For  they  are  not 
being  'featured/  at  present,  either  in  life  or  in  litera 
ture. 


A  Confession  in  Prose 

By  Walter  Prichard  Eaton 

UNLIKE  M.  Jourdain,  who  had  been  speaking  prose 
all  his  life  without  knowing  it,  I  have  been  writing  it 
nearly  all  of  mine,  quite  consciously,  and  earning  my 
living  thereby  since  I  was  twenty-one  years  old.  I  am 
now  thirty-four.  I  have  been  a  professional  writer  of 
prose,  then,  for  thirteen  years — or  shall  I  say  a  writer 
of  professional  prose?  Much  of  this  writing  has  been 
done  for  various  American  magazines;  still  more  has 
been  done  to  fill  the  ravenous  columns  of  American 
newspapers;  some,  even,  has  been  immured  between 
covers.  I  have  tried  never  to  write  sloppily,  though  I 
have  of  necessity  often  written  hastily.  I  can  honestly 
say,  too,  that  I  have  tried  at  times  to  write  beautifully, 
by  which  I  mean  rhythmically,  with  a  conscious  ad 
justment  of  sound  and  melody  to  the  sense,  with  the 
charm  of  word-chiming  further  to  heighten  heightened 
thought.  But  I  can  also  as  honestly  say  that  in  this 
latter  effort  I  have  never  been  encouraged  by  a  news 
paper  editor,  and  I  have  been  not  infrequently  dis 
couraged  by  magazine  editors.  Not  all  magazines 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

compel  you  to  chop  up  your  prose  into  a  maximum 
paragraph  length  of  ten  lines,  as  does  a  certain  one  of 
large  circulation.  Not  all  newspapers  compel  you  to  be 
'smart/  as  did  one  for  which  I  worked  compel  us  all. 
But  the  impression  among  editors  is  prevalent,  none 
the  less,  that  a  conversational  downrightness  and  sen 
tence  and  paragraph  brevity  are  the  be-all  and  end-all 
of  prose  style,  or  at  least  of  so  much  of  prose  style  as 
can  be  grasped  by  the  populace  who  read  their  publi 
cations;  and  that  beautiful  writing  must  be  'fine 
writing/  and  therefore  never  too  much  to  be  avoided. 
So  I  started  out  from  the  classroom  of  Professor  Lewis 
E.  Gates,  one  of  the  keenest  and  most  inspiring  ana 
lysts  of  prose  beauties  this  country  has  produced,  to 
be  a  professional  writer  of  prose,  and  dreamed,  as 
youth  will,  of  wrapping  my  singing  robes  about  me  and 
ravishing  the  world.  I  was  soon  enough  told  to  doff 
my  singing  robes  for  the  overalls  of  journalism,  and  I 
have  become  a  writer  of  professional  prose  instead. 

These  remarks  have  been  inspired  by  a  long  and 
wistful  evening  just  spent  in  perusing  Professor  Saints- 
bury's  new  book,  called  The  History  of  English  Prose 
Rhythm.  I  shall  hold  no  brief  for  the  good  professor's 
method  of  scansion.  It  matters  little  to  me,  indeed, 
how  he  chooses  to  scan  prose.  What  does  matter  to 
me  is  that  he  has  chosen  to  scan  it  at  all,  that  he  has 
brought  forward  the  finest  examples  in  the  stately 
procession  of  English  literature,  and  demonstrated  with 
[  226  I 


A  CONFESSION  IN  PROSE 

all  the  weight  of  his  learning,  his  authority,  his  fine 
enthusiasm,  that  this  prose  is  no  less  consciously 
wrought  to  pleasing  numbers  than  is  verse.  We  who 
studied  under  Professor  Gates  knew  much  of  this  be 
fore,  if  not  in  so  detailed  and  would-be  methodical  a 
fashion.  Charles  Lamb  knew  it  when  he  wrote,  'Even 
ourself,  in  these  our  humbler  lucubrations,  tune  our 
best  measured  cadences  (prose  has  her  cadences)  not 
unfrequently  to  the  charm  of  the  drowsier  watchman, 
"blessing  the  doors";  or  the  wild  sweep  of  winds  at 
midnight.'  Sir  Thomas  Browne  was  not  exactly  un 
aware  of  it  as  he  prepared  his  Urn  Burial  for  the  printer ; 
nor  the  authors  of  the  King  James  Version  of  the  Bible 
when  they  translated  —  or  if  you  prefer,  paraphrased 
-  the  rhapsodic  chapters  of  Isaiah.  But  it  is  pleasant, 
and  not  unimportant,  to  be  once  more  reminded,  in  a 
generation  when  written  speech  has  sunk  to  the  con 
versational  level  of  the  man  in  the  street,  that  'prose 
has  her  cadences' ;  and  to  me,  at  least,  it  is  melancholy, 
also.  For  I  would  strive  to  write  such  prose,  in  my 
stumbling  fashion,  were  I  permitted. 

Writing  about  a  fine  art,  as  I  am  so  often  called  upon 
to  do,  I  would  endeavor  with  what  might  lay  in  me  to 
write  about  it  finely.  Suppose  that  art  chances  to  be 
the  drama.  Why,  when  some  compact,  weighty,  and 
worthily  performed  example  comes  to  our  stage,  should 
I  be  expected  to  toss  off  a  description  of  it  in  a  style 
less  compact  and  weighty  and  worthily  conducted? 
[  227  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

On  the  rare  occasions  when  a  new  play  chances  to  be 
poetic,  am  I  not  justified  in  writing  of  it  in  poetic 
prose?  How  else,  indeed,  can  I  truly  render  back  to 
my  readers  the  subtler  aspects  of  its  charm?  But  for 
such  writing  there  is  little  room  in  our  hurrying  and 
' conversational'  press,  though  now  and  then  a  de 
spised  dramatic  editor  is  found  who  understands.  Even 
the  drama  itself  strives  to  be  *  conversational '  at  all 
costs,  under  the  banner  of  'realism,'  and  profanity 
flourishes  on  our  stage  in  what  we  must  infer  to  be  a 
most  life-like  manner,  while  we  have  almost  forgotten 
that  the  spoken  word  can  be  melodious  or  imaginative. 
Criticism  cries  at  its  heels,  and  helps  with  flippant  jest 
and  broken  syntax  and  cacophonous  combinations  of 
our  poorest  vernacular,  in  the  general  debasement. 
Do  not  tell  me  that  men  do  not  exist  who  could  write 
differently  of  the  stage,  as  men  exist  who  can,  and  do, 
write  differently  for  it.  Every  worthy  dramatist  can 
be  paralleled  by  at  least  one  worthy  critic,  and  more 
probably  by  three  or  four,  since  the  true  creative  in 
stinct  in  drama  is  perhaps  the  rarest  of  human  attri 
butes,  save  only  charity.  But  the  editors  appear  to 
have  determined  that  the  public  does  not  want  such 
critics  —  and  perhaps  the  editors  are  right.  At  least, 
the  public  does  not  often  get  them. 

We  are  speaking  now  of  prose,  not  of  opinions,  and 
we  may  safely  introduce  the  name  of  a  living  critic, 
William  Winter.  For  nearly  half  a  century  Mr.  Winter 
f    228   1 


A  CONFESSION  IN  PROSE 

has  written  prose  about  the  theatre,  and  although  that 
prose  was  produced  for  a  morning  newspaper  it  was 
carefully  and  consistently  balanced  and  welded,  and, 
when  the  subject  demanded  it,  rose,  according  to  its 
creator's  ideas  of  beauty,  into  the  heightened  eloquence 
of  sentence  rhythm  and  syllabic  harmony.  Leisure 
may  improve,  but  haste  cannot  prevent  the  rhythm  of 
prose,  provided  the  instinct  for  it  resides  in  the  writer, 
and  the  opportunity  exists  for  practice  and  expression. 
Two  examples  of  Mr.  Winter's  use  of  rhythm  come  to 
my  memory,  and  I  quote  only  phrases,  not  whole  sen 
tences,  merely  because  I  am  sure  of  no  more.  Writing 
one  morning  of  a  new  and  very  '  modern '  play,  pre 
sented  the  previous  evening  by  a  well-known  actress, 
he  said:  'Sarah  Bernhardt  at  least  made  her  sexual 
monsters  interesting,  wielding  the  lethal  hatpin  or  the 
deadly  hatchet  with  Gallic  grace  and  sweet  celerity/ 
Again,  in  reviewing  Pinero's  7m,  he  took  up  two  of 
Henry  Arthur  Jones's  phrases,  recently  made  current 
in  a  lecture,  and  played  with  them,  ending  with  melli 
fluous  scorn,  'Such  are  "the  great  realities  of  modern 
life,"  flowers  of  disease  and  blight  that  fringe  the  char- 
nel  house  of  the  " serious  drama."3 

These  are  certainly  examples  of  rhythmic,  or  ca- 
denced  prose,  and  they  are  examples  taken  from  jour 
nalistic  reviews.  They  admirably  express  the  writer's 
point  of  view  toward  his  subject  matter,  but  they  also 
reveal  his  care  for  the  manner  of  expression,  they 
[  229  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

satisfy  the  ear;  and  therefore  to  one  at  all  sensitive  to 
literature  they  are  doubly  satisfying.  The  arrow  of 
irony  is  ever  more  delightful  when  it  sings  on  its  flight. 
The  trick,  then,  can  be  done.  Mr.  Winter,  too  often 
perhaps  for  modern  ears,  performed  it  by  recourse  to 
the  Johnsonian  balance  of  period  and  almost  uniform, 
swelling  roll.  But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  The 
point  is  that  he  performed  it  —  and  that  it  is  no  longer 
performed  by  the  new  generation,  either  in  newspa 
per  columns,  or,  we  will  add  at  once,  anywhere  else. 
Rhythmic  prose,  prose  cadenced  to  charm  the  ear  and 
by  its  melodies  and  harmonies  properly  adjusted  to 
heighten,  as  with  an  under-song,  the  emotional  appeal 
of  the  ideas  expressed,  is  no  longer  written.  It  appears 
to  be  no  longer  wanted.  We  are  fallen  upon  harsh  and 
colloquial  times. 

No  one  with  any  ear  at  all  would  deny  Emerson  a 
style,  even  if  his  rhythms  are  often  broken  into  the 
cross-chop  of  Carlyle.  No  one  would  deny  Irving  a 
style,  or  Poe,  —  certainly  Poe  at  his  best,  —  or,  in 
deed,  to  hark  far  back,  Cotton  Mather  in  many  pas 
sages  of  the  Magnalia,  where  to  a  quaint  iambic  sim 
plicity  he  added  a  Biblical  fervor  which  redeems  and 
melodizes  the  monotony.  Mather  suggests  Milton, 
Irving  suggests  Addison,  Emerson  suggests  Carlyle, 
Poe,  shall  we  say,  is  often  the  too  conscious  workman 
typified  by  De  Quincey.  But  thereafter,  in  this  coun 
try,  we  descend  rapidly  into  second-hand  imitations, 
I  230  ] 


A  CONFESSION  IN  PROSE 

into  rhythm  become,  in  truth,  mere  'fine  writing/ 
until  its  death  within  recent  memory.  Yet  we  do  not 
find  even  to-day  the  true  cadenced  prose  either  unin 
teresting  or  out  of  date.  Emerson  is  as  modern  as  the 
morning  paper.  Newman's  description  of  the  ideal 
site  for  a  university,  in  the  clear  air  of  Attica  beside 
the  blue  yEgean,  charms  us  still  with  its  perfect  blend 
of  sound  and  sense,  its  clear  intellectual  idea  borne  on 
a  cadenced  undersong,  as  of  distant  surf  upon  the  shore ; 
and  the  exquisite  epilogue  to  the  Apologia,  with  its 
chime  of  proper  names,  still  brings  a  moisture  to  our 
eyes.  The  triumphant  tramp  of  Gibbon,  the  head 
long  imagery  and  Biblical  fervor  of  Ruskin,  the  lan 
guid  music  of  Walter  Pater,  each  holds  its  separate 
charm,  and  the  charm  is  not  archaic. 

Is  such  prose  impossible  any  more?  Certainly  it  is 
not.  The  heritage  of  the  language  is  still  ours,  the 
birthright  of  our  noble  English  tongue.  Simply,  we  do 
not  dare  to  let  ourselves  go.  We  seem  tortured  with 
the  modern  blight  of  self-consciousness;  and  while  the 
cheaper  magazines  are  almost  blatant  in  their  unblush 
ing  self-puffery,  they  are  none  the  less  cravenly  sub 
missive  to  what  they  deem  popular  demand,  and  turn 
their  backs  on  literature,  on  style,  as  something  ab 
horrent  to  a  race  which  has  been  fed  on  the  English 
Bible  for  three  hundred  years.  Their  ideal  of  a  prose 
style  now  seems  to  consist  of  a  series  of  staccato  yips. 
It  really  cannot  be  described  in  any  other  way.  The 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

'triumphantly  intricate '  sentence  celebrated  by  Wal 
ter  Pater  would  give  many  a  modern  editor  a  shiver  of 
terror.  He  would  visualize  it  as  mowing  down  the 
circulation  of  the  magazine  like  a  machine  gun. 
Rhythm  and  beauty  of  style  can  hardly  be  achieved 
by  staccato  yips.  The  modern  magazine  writer,  trying 
to  be  rhetorically  effective,  trying  to  rise  to  the  de 
mands  of  heightened  thought  or  emotional  appeal, 
reminds  one  of  that  enthusiastic  German  tympanist 
who  wrote  an  entire  symphonic  poem  for  kettle 
drums. 

I  read  one  of  the  autumn  crop  of  new  novels  the 
other  day.  Curiously  enough,  it  was  written  by  a 
music  critic  who,  in  his  reviews  of  music,  is  constantly 
insisting  on  the  primal  importance  of  melody  and  har 
mony,  who  is  an  arch  foe  of  the  modern  programme 
school  and  the  whole-tone  scale  of  Debussy.  But  the 
prose  of  his  novel  was  utterly  devoid  of  these  prized 
elements,  melody  and  harmony.  A  heavy,  or  some 
times  turgid,  journalistic  commonplaceness  sat  upon 
it.  I  will  not  be  unfair  and  tear  an  illustration  from 
some  passage  of  rightly  simple  narration.  I  will  take 
the  closing  sentences  from  one  of  the  climactic  chap 
ters,  when  the  mood  had  supposedly  risen  to  intensity, 
and,  if  ever,  the  prose  would  have  been  justified  in 
rising  to  reinforce  the  emotion. 

The  house  was  aroused  to  extravagant  demonstra 
tions.  Across  the  footlights  it  looked  like  a  brilliantly 
[  232  ] 


A  CONFESSION  IN  PROSE 

realistic  piece  of  acting,  and  the  audience  was  aston 
ished  at  the  vigor  of  the  hitherto  cold  Americano. 

'But  Nagy  was  not  deceived.  Crushed,  dishevelled, 
breathless,  she  knew  that  her  dominion  over  him  was 
gone  forever.  She  had  tried  to  show  him  his  soul  and 
he  had  begun  to  see  the  light/ 

Now,  an  ear  attuned  to  the  melodies  of  English 
prose  must  surely  find  this  commonplace,  and  the 
closing  sentence  of  all  actually  as  harsh  as  the  ton 
alities  of  Strauss  or  Debussy  seem  to  the  writer.  Let 
us,  even  if  a  little  unfairly,  set  it  beside  a  passage 
from  Henry  Esmond,  again  a  climactic  passage,  but 
one  where  the  style  is  climactic,  also,  rising  to  the 
mood. 

"  You  will  please,  sir,  to  remember,"  he  continued, 
"  that  our  family  hath  ruined  itself  by  fidelity  to  yours: 
that  my  grandfather  spent  his  estate,  and  gave  his 
blood  and  his  son  to  die  for  your  service;  that  my  dear 
lord's  grandfather  (for  lord  you  are  now,  Frank,  by 
right  and  title  too)  died  for  the  same  cause;  that  my 
poor  kinswoman,  my  father's  second  wife,  after  giving 
away  her  honor  to  your  wicked  perjured  race,  sent  all 
her  wealth  to  the  King;  and  got  in  return  that  precious 
title  that  lies  in  ashes,  and  this  inestimable  yard  of 
blue  ribbon.  I  lay  this  at  your  feet  and  stamp  upon  it; 
I  draw  this  sword,  and  break  it  and  deny  you;  and  had 
you  completed  the  wrong  you  designed  us,  by  Heaven 
I  would  have  driven  it  through  your  heart,  and  no  more 

t  233 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

pardoned  you  than  your  father  pardoned  Monmouth. 
Frank  will  do  the  same,  won't  you,  cousin?" 

This  justly  famous  passage,  be  it  noted,  is  dialogue. 
To-day  we  especially  do  not  dare  to  rise  above  a  con 
versational  level  in  dialogue.  We  should  be  accused  of 
being  'unnatural.7  Does  no  one  speak  beautifully  any 
more,  then,  even  in  real  life?  Are  the  nerve-centres  so 
shattered  in  the  modern  anatomy  that  no  connection 
is  established  between  emotions  and  the  musical  sense? 
Does  an  exquisite  mood  no  longer  reflect  itself  in  our 
voice,  in  our  vocabulary?  Does  no  lover  rise  to  elo 
quence  in  the  presence  of  his  Adored?  If  that  is  the 
case,  surely  we  now  speak  unnaturally,  and  it  should 
be  the  duty  of  literature  to  restore  our  health!  Nor 
need  such  speech  in  fiction  float  clear  away  from  solid 
ground.  Notice  how  Thackeray  in  his  closing  sen 
tence  —  '  Frank  will  do  the  same,  won't  you,  cousin? ' 
—  anchors  his  rhetoric  to  the  earth. 

We  are,  let  it  be  said  again,  in  the  grasp  of  realism, 
and  realism  but  imperfectly  understood.  Just  as  our 
drama  aims  to  reproduce  exactly  a  ' solid'  room  upon 
the  stage,  and  to  set  actors  to  talking  therein  the  exact 
speech  of  every  day,  so  our  oratory,  so-called,  is  the 
reproduction  of  a  one-sided  conversation,  and  our 
novels  (when  they  are  worthy  of  consideration)  are 
reproductions  of  patiently  accumulated  details,  set 
forth  in  impatiently  assembled  sentences.  But  all  this 
does  not  of  necessity  constitute  realism,  because  its 

1 234  ] 


A  CONFESSION  IN  PROSE 

effect  is  not  of  necessity  the  creation  of  illusion,  how 
ever  truthful  the  artist's  purpose.  Of  what  avail,  in 
the  drama,  for  example,  are  solid  rooms  and  conversa 
tional  vernacular  if  the  characters  do  not  come  to  life 
in  our  imaginations,  so  that  we  share  their  joys  and 
sorrows?  Of  what  effect  are  the  realistic  details  of  a 
novel,  whether  of  incident  or  language,  if  we  do  not 
re-live  its  story  as  we  read?  Surely,  the  answer  is  plain, 
and  therefore  any  literary  devices  which  heighten  the 
mood  for  us  are  perfectly  justifiable  weapons  of  the 
realist,  even  as  they  are  of  the  romanticist.  One  of 
these  devices  is  consciously  wrought  prose.  For  the 
present  we  plead  for  its  employment  on  no  higher 
ground  than  this  of  practical  expediency. 

But  how,  you  may  ask,  —  no,  not  you,  dear  reader, 
who  understand,  but  some  other  chap,  a  poor  dog  of  an 
author,  perhaps,  —  can  consciously  wrought  prose  aid 
in  the  creation  of  illusion?  How  can  it  be  more  than 
pretty? 

Let  us  turn  for  answer  to  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  to 
'The  Garden  of  Cyrus,'  to  the  closing  numbers:  - 

*  Besides,  Hippocrates  hath  spoke  so  little,  and  the 
oneirocritical  masters  have  left  such  frigid  interpreta 
tions  from  plants,  that  there  is  little  encouragement  to 
dream  of  paradise  itself.  Nor  will  the  sweetest  delight 
of  gardens  afford  much  comfort  in  sleep,  wherein  the 
dulness  of  that  sense  shakes  hands  with  delectable 
odours;  and  though  in  the  bed  of  Cleopatra,  can 

t  235 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

hardly  with  any  delight  raise  up  the  ghost  of  a 
rose.' 

That  is  archaic,  perhaps,  and  not  without  a  certain 
taint  of  quaintness  to  modern  ears.  But  how  drowsy 
it  is,  how  minor  its  harmonies,  how  subtly  soothing  its 
languid  melody!  It  tells,  surely,  in  what  manner  con 
sciously  wrought  prose  may  aid  in  the  creation  of  illu 
sion.  The  mood  of  sleep  was  here  to  be  evoked,  and 
lo !  it  comes  from  the  very  music  of  the  sentences,  from 
the  drowsy  lullaby  of  selected  syllables. 

We  might  choose  a  quite  different  example,  from  a 
seemingly  most  unlikely  source,  from  the  plays  of 
George  Bernard  Shaw.  One  hardly  thinks  of  Mr. 
Shaw  with  a  style,  but  rather  with  a  stiletto.  His  pre 
faces  have  been  too  disputative,  his  plays  too  epigram 
matic,  for  the  cultivation  of  prose  rhythms.  Yet  his 
prose  is  almost  never  without  a  certain  crisp  accuracy 
of  conversational  cadence;  his  ear  almost  never  be 
trays  him  into  sloppiness;  and  when  the  occasion  de 
mands,  his  style  can  rise  to  meet  it.  The  truth  is,  Mr. 
Shaw  is  seldom  emotional,  so  that  his  crisp  accuracy 
of  speech  is  most  often  the  fitting  garment  for  his 
thought.  But  in  John  Bull's  Other  Island  his  emotions 
are  stirred,  and  when  Larry  Doyle  breaks  out  into  an 
impassioned  description  of  Ireland  the  effect  on  the 
imagination  of  the  heightened  prose,  when  a  good  actor 
speaks  it,  is  almost  startling. 

'No,  no;  the  climate  is  different.  Here,  if  the  life  is 
[  236  ] 


A  CONFESSION  IN  PROSE 

dull,  you  can  be  dull  too,  and  no  great  harm  done. 
(Going  off  into  a  passionate  dream.}  But  your  wits  can't 
thicken  in  that  soft  moist  air,  on  those  white  springy 
roads,  in  those  misty  rushes  and  brown  bogs,  on  those 
hillsides  of  granite  rocks  and  magenta  heather.  You  Ve 
no  such  colors  in  the  sky,  no  such  lure  in  the  distances, 
no  such  sadness  in  the  evenings.  Oh,  the  dreaming! 
the  dreaming!  the  torturing,  heart-scalding,  never- 
satisfying  dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming! 
(Savagely.)  No  debauchery  that  ever  coarsened  and 
brutalized  an  Englishman  can  take  the  worth  and  use 
fulness  out  of  him  like  that  dreaming.  An  Irishman's 
imagination  never  lets  him  alone,  never  convinces  him, 
never  satisfies  him;  but  it  makes  him  so  that  he  can't 
face  reality  nor  deal  with  it  nor  handle  it  nor  conquer 
it :  he  can  only  sneer  at  them  that  do,  and  (bitterly,  at 
Broadbent)  be  " agreeable  to  strangers,"  like  a  good- 
for-nothing  woman  on  the  streets.' 

This,  to  be  sure,  is  prose  to  be  spoken,  not  prose  to 
be  read.  Different  laws  prevail,  for  different  effects  are 
sought.  But  the  principle  of  cadence  calculated  to  fit 
the  mood,  and  by  its  melodic,  or,  as  here,  its  percussive 
character  to  heighten  the  emotional  appeal,  remains 
the  same. 

But  beyond  the  argument  for  cadenced  prose  as  an 
aid  to  illusion,  employed  in  the  proper  places,  —  that 
is,  where  intensity  of  imagery  or  feeling  can  benefit  by 
it,  —  is  the  higher  plea  for  sheer  lingual  beauty  for  its 

[   237   1 


!  ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

own  sake.  Shall  realism  preclude  all  other  effects  of 
artistic  creation?  Because  the  men  on  our  streets,  the 
women  in  our  homes,  talk  sloppily,  shall  all  our  books 
be  written  in  their  idiom,  all  our  stage  characters  re 
produce  their  commonplaceness,  nearly  all  our  maga 
zines  and  newspapers  give  no  attention  to  the  graces 
of  style?  I  am  pleading  for  no  Newman  of  the  news 
story,  nor  am  I  seeking  to  arm  our  muck-rakers  with 
the  pen  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne.  I  would  not  send 
Walter  Pater  to  report  a  football  game  (though  Steven 
son  could  doubtless  improve  on  most  of  the  '  sporting 
editors'),  nor  ask  that  Emerson  write  our  editorials. 
But  there  is  a  poor  way,  and  there  is  a  fine  way,  to 
write  everything,  and  inevitably  the  man  who  has  an 
ear  for  the  rhythms  of  prose,  who  has  been  trained  and 
encouraged  to  write  his  very  best,  will  fit  his  style  ap 
propriately  to  his  subject.  He  will  not  seek  to  cadence 
his  sentences  in  bald  narration  or  in  exposition,  but  he 
will,  nevertheless,  keep  them  capable  of  natural  and 
pleasant  phrasing,  he  will  avoid  monotony,  jarring 
syllables,  false  stress,  and  ugly  or  tripping  termina 
tions  which  throw  the  voice  as  one's  feet  are  thrown 
by  an  unseen  obstacle  in  the  path.  His  paragraphs, 
too,  will  group  naturally,  as  falls  his  thought.  But 
when  the  subject  he  has  in  hand  rises  to  invective,  to 
exhortation,  to  the  dignity  of  any  passion  or  the  sweep 
of  any  vision,  then  if  his  ear  be  tuned  and  his  courage 
does  not  fail  him  he  must  inevitably  write  in  cadenced 

1 238  ] 


A  CONFESSION  IN  PROSE 

periods,  the  effectiveness  of  his  work  depending  on  the 
adjustment  of  these  cadences  to  the  mood  of  the  mo 
ment,  on  his  skill  as  an  artist  in  prose. 

And  just  now  the  courage  of  our  young  men  fails. 
The  unrestrained  abandonment  of  all  art  to  realism,  of 
every  sort  of  printed  page  to  bald  colloquialism,  has 
dulled  the  natural  ear  in  all  of  us  for  comely  prose,  and 
made  us  deaf  to  more  stately  measures.  The  complete 
democratizing  of  literature  has  put  the  fear  of  plebeian 
ridicule  in  our  hearts,  and  the  wider  a  magazine's  cir 
culation,  it  would  seem,  the  more  harm  it  does  to  Eng 
lish  prose,  because  in  direct  ratio  to  its  sale  are  its 
pages  given  over  to  the  Philistines,  and  the  dignity  and 
refinement  of  thought  which  could  stimulate  dignity 
and  refinement  of  expression  are  unknown  to  its  con 
tributors,  or  kept  carefully  undisclosed. 

I  have  often  fancied,  in  penitential  moments,  a  day 
of  judgment  for  us  who  write,  when  we  shall  stand  in 
flushed  array  before  the  Ultimate  Critic  and  answer 
the  awful  question,  'What  have  you  done  with  your 
language?'  There  shall  be  searchings  of  soul  that 
morning,  and  searchings  of  forgotten  pages  of  maga 
zines  and  '  best  sellers '  and  books  of  every  sort,  for  the 
cadence  that  may  bring  salvation.  But  many  shall 
seek  and  few  shall  find,  and  the  goats  shall  be  sorted 
out  in  droves,  condemned  to  an  eternity  of  torture, 
none  other  than  the  everlasting  task  of  listening  to 
their  own  prose  read  aloud. 

[    239   ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

'What  have  you  done  with  your  language? *  It  is  a 
solemn  question  for  all  of  us,  for  you  who  speak  as  well 
as  for  us  who  write.  Our  language  is  a  priceless  herit 
age.  It  has  been  the  ladder  of  life  up  which  we  climbed ; 
with  it  we  have  bridged  the  sundering  flood  that  for 
ever  rolls  between  man  and  man;  through  its  aid  have 
come  to  us  the  treasures  of  the  past,  the  world's  store 
of  experience;  by  means  of  it  our  poets  have  wrought 
their  measures,  our  philosophers  their  dreams.  Bit  by 
bit,  precious  mosaic  after  precious  mosaic,  the  great 
body  of  English  literature  has  been  built  up,  in  verse 
and  prose,  the  crown  of  that  division  of  language  we 
call  our  own.  Consciously  rinding  itself  three  centuries 
ago,  our  English  prose  blossomed  at  once  into  the 
solemn  splendors  of  the  King  James  Bible  and  then 
into  the  long-drawn,  ornate  magnificence  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  never  again  till  our  day  to  lose  consciousness 
of  its  power,  to  forget  its  high  and  holy  task,  the  task 
of  maintaining  our  language  at  full  tide  and  ministering 
to  style  and  beauty.  There  were  fluxes  in  the  fashions, 
naturally;  little  of  Browne's  music  being  found  in  the 
almost  conversational  fluency  (but  not  laxness)  of 
Addison,  even  as  the  suave  Mr.  Addison  himself  has 
vanished  in  the  tempestuous  torrents  of  Carlyle.  But 
there  always  was  an  Addison,  a  Carlyle,  a  Newman,  a 
Walter  Pater,  whose  work  loomed  large  in  popular  re 
gard,  whose  influence  was  mighty  in  shaping  a  taste  for 
prose  style.  Who  now,  we  may  ask,  looking  around  us 
[  240  ] 


A  CONFESSION  IN  PROSE 

in  America,  looms  large  in  popular  regard  as  a  writer 
of  ample  vision,  amply  and  beautifully  clothed  in 
speech,  and  whose  influence  is  mighty  in  shaping  a 
taste  for  prose  style?  It  is  not  enough  to  have  the 
worthies  of  the  past  upon  our  shelves.  Each  age  must 
have  its  own  inspiration.  Again  we  hear  the  solemn 
question,  'What  have  you  done  with  your  language?' 
Only  Ireland  may  answer,  'We  have  our  George  Moore, 
and  we  had  our  Synge  not  long  ago  —  but  we  stoned 
his  plays/ 

We  have  stifled  our  language,  we  have  debased  it,  we 
have  been  afraid  of  it.  But  some  day  it  will  reassert 
itself,  for  it  is  stronger  than  we,  alike  our  overlord  and 
avatar.  Deep  in  the  soul  of  man  dwells  the  lyric  im 
pulse,  and  when  his  song  cannot  be  the  song  of  the 
poet  it  will  shape  itself  in  rhythmic  prose,  that  it  may 
still  be  cadenced  and  modulated  to  change  with  the 
changing  thought  and  sound  an  obligato  to  the  moods 
of  the  author's  spirit.  How  wonderful  has  been  our 
prose,  —  grave  and  chastely  rich  when  Hooker  wrote 
it,  striding  triumphant  over  the  pages  of  Gibbon  on 
tireless  feet,  ringing  like  a  trumpet  from  Emerson's 
white  house  in  Concord,  modulated  like  soft  organ- 
music  heard  afar  in  Newman's  lyric  moods,  clanging 
and  clamorous  in  Carlyle,  in  Walter  Pater  but  as  the 
soft  fall  of  water  in  a  marble  fountain  while  exquisite 
odors  flood  the  Roman  twilight  and  late  bees  are  mur 
murous,  a  little  of  all,  perhaps,  in  Stevenson!  We,  too, 

1 241 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

we  little  fellows  of  to-day,  could  write  as  they  wrote, 
consciously,  rhythmically,  if  we  only  cared,  if  we  only 
dared.  We  ask  for  the  opportunity,  the  encourage 
ment.  Alas!  that  also  means  a  more  liberal  choice  of 
graver  subjects,  and  a  more  extensive  employment  of 
the  essay  form.  Milton  could  hardly  have  been  Mil- 
tonic  on  a  lesser  theme  than  the  Fall  of  the  Angels,  and 
Walter  Pater  wrote  of  the  Mona  Lisa,  not  Lizzie  Smith 
of  Davenport,  Iowa.  It  is  doubtless  of  interest  to  learn 
about  Lizzie,  but  she  hardly  inspires  us  to  rhythmic 
prose. 


In  the  Chair 

By  Ralph  Bergengren 

ABOUT  once  in  so  often  a  man  must  go  to  the  barber 
for  what,  with  contemptuous  brevity,  is  called  a  hair 
cut.  He  must  sit  in  a  big  chair,  a  voluminous  bib 
(prettily  decorated  with  polka  dots)  tucked  in  round 
his  neck,  and  let  another  human  being  cut  his  hair  for 
him.  His  head,  with  all  its  internal  mystery  and  wealth 
of  thought,  becomes  for  the  time  being  a  mere  poll, 
worth  two  dollars  a  year  to  the  tax-assessor :  an  irregu 
larly  shaped  object,  between  a  summer  squash  and  a 
canteloupe,  with  too  much  hair  on  it,  as  very  likely 
several  friends  and  acquaintances  have  advised  him. 
His  identity  vanishes. 

As  a  rule  the  less  he  now  says  or  thinks  about  his 
head,  the  better:  he  has  given  it  to  the  barber,  and  the 
barber  will  do  as  he  pleases  with  it.  It  is  only  when 
the  man  is  little  and  is  brought  in  by  his  mother,  that 
the  job  will  be  done  according  to  instructions;  and  this 
is  because  the  man's  mother  is  in  a  position  to  see 
the  back  of  his  head.  Also  because  the  weakest  wo 
man  under  such  circumstances  has  strong  convictions. 

[    243    1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

When  the  man  is  older  the  barber  will  sometimes  allow 
him  to  see  the  haircut,  cleverly  reflected  in  two  mir 
rors  ;  but  not  one  man  in  a  thousand  —  nay,  in  ten 
thousand  —  would  dare  express  himself  as  dissatisfied. 
After  all,  what  does  he  know  of  haircuts,  he  who  is  no 
barber?  Women  feel  differently;  and  I  know  of  one 
man,  returning  home  with  a  new  haircut,  who  was 
compelled  to  turn  round  again  and  take  what  his  wife 
called  his  'poor'  head  to  another  barber  by  whom 
the  haircut  was  more  happily  finished.  But  that  was 
exceptional.  And  it  happened  to  that  man  but 
once. 

The  very  word  ' haircut'  is  objectionable.  It  snips 
like  the  scissors.  Yet  it  describes  the  operation  more 
honestly  than  the  substitute  'trim,'  a  euphemism  indi 
cating  a  jaunty  habit  of  dropping  in  frequently  at  the 
barber's,  and  so  keeping  the  hair  perpetually  at  just 
the  length  that  is  most  becoming.  For  most  men, 
although  the  knowledge  must  be  gathered  by  keen, 
patient  observation  and  never  by  honest  confession, 
there  is  a  period,  lasting  about  a  week,  when  the  length 
of  their  hair  is  admirable.  But  it  comes  between  hair 
cuts.  The  haircut  itself  is  never  satisfactory.  If  his 
hair  was  too  long  before  (and  on  this  point  he  has  the 
evidence  of  unprejudiced  witnesses),  it  is  too  short 
now.  It  must  grow  steadily  —  count  on  it  for  that !  — • 
until  for  a  brief  period  it  is  'just  right,'  aesthetically 
suited  to  the  contour  of  his  face  and  the  cut  of  his 

[    244   ] 


IN  THE  CHAIR 

features,  and  beginning  already  imperceptibly  to  grow 
too  long  again. 

Soon  this  growth  becomes  visible,  and  the  man 
begins  to  worry.  'I  must  go  to  the  barber/  he  says  in 
a  harassed  way.  'I  must  get  a  haircut.'  But  the  days 
pass.  It  is  always  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to 
morrow.  When  he  goes,  he  goes  suddenly. 

There  is  something  within  us,  probably  our  imrnQr.- 
tal  soul,  that  postpones  a  haircut;  and  yet  in  the  end 
our  immortal  souls  have  little  to  do  with  the  actual 
process.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  one  immortal 
soul  cutting  another  immortal  soul's  hair.  My  own 
soul,  I  am  sure,  has  never  entered  a  barber's  shop.  It 
stops  and  waits  for  me  at  the  portal.  Probably  it  con 
verses  on  subjects  remote  from  our  bodily  conscious 
ness  with  the  immortal  souls  of  barbers,  patiently 
waiting  until  the  barbers  finish  their  morning's  work 
,  and  come  out  to  lunch. 

Even  during  the  haircut  our  hair  is  still  growing, 
never  stopping,  never  at  rest,  never  in  a  hurry:  it  grows 
while  we  sleep,  as  was  proved  by  Rip  Van  Winkle.  And 
yet  perhaps  sometimes  it  is  in  a  hurry;  perhaps  that  is 
why  it  falls  out.  In  rare  cases  the  contagion  of  speed 
spreads;  the  last  hair  hurries  after  all  the  others;  the 
man  is  emancipated  from  dependence  on  barbers.  I 
know  a  barber  who  is  in  this  independent  condition 
himself  (for  the  barber  can  no  more  cut  his  own  hair 
than  the  rest  of  us)  and  yet  sells  his  customers  a  prepa- 

[   245  1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

ration  warranted  to  keep  them  from  attaining  it,  a 
seeming  anomaly  which  can  be  explained  only  on  the 
ground  that  business  is  business.  To  escape  the  hair 
cut  one  must  be  quite  without  hair  that  one  cannot  see 
and  reach;  and  herein  possibly  is  the  reason  for  a  fash 
ion  which  has  often  perplexed  students  of  the  Norman 
Conquest.  The  Norman  soldiery  wore  no  hair  on  the 
backs  of  their  heads;  and  each  brave  fellow  could  sit 
down  in  front  of  his  polished  shield  and  cut  his  own 
hair  without  much  trouble.  But  the  scheme  had  a 
weakness.  The  back  of  the  head  had  to  be  shaven, 
and  the  fashion  doubtless  went  out  because,  after  all, 
nothing  was  gained  by  it.  One  simply  turned  over  on 
one's  face  in  the  barber's  chair  instead  of  sitting  up 
straight. 

Fortunately  we  begin  having  a  haircut  when  we  are 
too  young  to  think,  and  when  also  the  process  is  sugar- 
coated  by  the  knowledge  that  we  are  losing  our  curls. 
Then  habit  accustoms  us  to  it.  Yet  it  is  significant 
that  men  of  refinement  seek  the  barber  in  secluded 
places,  basements  of  hotels  for  choice,  where  they  can 
be  seen  only  by  barbers  and  by  other  refined  men  hav 
ing  or  about  to  have  haircuts;  and  that  men  of  less 
refinement  submit  to  the  operation  where  every  passer 
by  can  stare  in  and  see  them,  bibs  round  their  necks 
and  their  shorn  locks  lying  in  pathetic  little  heaps  on 
the  floor.  There  is  a  barber's  shop  of  this  kind  in 
Boston  where  one  of  the  barbers,  having  no  head  to 
[  246  ] 


IN  THE  CHAIR 

play  with,  plays  on  a  cornet,  doubtless  to  the  further 
distress  of  his  immortal  soul  peeping  in  through  the 
window.  But  this  is  unusual  even  in  the  city  that  is 
known  far  and  wide  as  the  home  of  the  Boston  Sym 
phony  Orchestra. 

I  remember  a  barber  —  he  was  the  only  one  avail 
able  in  a  small  town  —  who  cut  my  left  ear.  The  deed 
distressed  him,  and  he  told  me  a  story.  It  was  a  pretty 
little  cut,  he  said  —  filling  it  with  alum  —  and  re 
minded  him  of  another  gentleman  whose  left  ear  he 
had  nipped  in  identically  the  same  place.  He  had  done 
his  best  with  alum  and  apology,  as  he  was  now  doing. 
Two  months  later  the  gentleman  came  in  again.  'And 
by  golly!'  said  the  barber,  with  a  kind  of  wonder  at 
his  own  cleverness,  'if  I  did  n't  nip  him  again  in  just 
the  same  place!' 

A  man  can  shave  himself.  The  Armless  Wonder  does 
it  in  the  Dime  Museum.  Byron  did  it,  and  composed 
poetry  during  the  operation,  although,  as  I  have  re 
cently  seen  scientifically  explained,  the  facility  of  com 
position  was  not  due  to  the  act  of  shaving  but  to  the 
normal  activity  of  the  human  mind  at  that  time  in  the 
morning.  Here  therefore  a  man  can  refuse  the  offices 
of  the  barber.  If  he  wishes  to  make  one  of  a  half- 
dozen  apparently  inanimate  figures,  their  faces  cov 
ered  with  soap,  and  their  noses  used  as  convenient 
handles  to  turn  first  one  cheek  and  then  the  other  — 
that  is  his  own  lookout.  But  human  ingenuity  has  yet 

I   247   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

to  invent  a  'safety  barber's  shears.'  It  has  tried.  A 
near  genius  once  made  an  apparatus  —  a  kind  of  hel 
met  with  multitudinous  little  scissors  inside  it  — 
which  he  hopefully  believed  would  solve  the  problem; 
but  what  became  of  him  and  his  invention  I  have  not 
heard.  Perhaps  he  tried  it  himself  and  slunk,  defeated, 
into  a  deeper  obscurity.  Perhaps  he  committed  sui 
cide,  for  one  can  easily  imagine  that  a  man  who  thought 
he  had  found  a  way  to  cut  his  own  hair  and  then  found 
that  he  had  n't  would  be  thrown  into  a  suicidal  depres 
sion.  There  is  the  possibility  that  he  succeeded  in  cut 
ting  his  own  hair,  and  was  immediately  'put  away/ 
where  nobody  could  see  him  but  the  hardened  attend 
ants,  by  his  sensitive  family.  The  important  fact  is 
that  the  invention  never  got  on  the  market.  Until 
some  other  investigator  succeeds  to  more  practical 
purpose,  the  rest  of  us  must  go  periodically  to  the 
barber.  We  must  put  on  the  bib  — 

Here,  however,  there  is  at  least  an  opportunity  of 
selection.  There  are  bibs  with  arms,  and  bibs  without 
arms.  And  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  satisfaction  in 
being  able  to  see  our  own  hands,  carefully  holding  the 
newspaper  or  periodical  wherewith  we  pretend  that 
we  are  still  intelligent  human  beings.  And  here  again 
are  distinctions.  The  patrons  of  my  own  favored  bar 
ber's  shop  have  arms  to  their  bibs  and  pretend  to 
be  deeply  interested  in  the  Illustrated  London  News. 
The  patrons  of  the  barber's  shop  where  I  lost  part  of 
[  248  ] 


IN  THE  CHAIR 

my  ear  —  I  cannot  see  the  place,  but  those  whom  I 
take  into  my  confidence  tell  me  that  it  has  long  since 
grown  again  —  had  no  sleeves  to  their  bibs,  but  never 
theless  managed  awkwardly  to  hold  the  Police  Gazette. 
And  this  opportunity  to  hold  the  Police  Gazette  with 
out  attracting  attention  becomes  a  pleasant  feature  of 
this  type  of  barber's  shop:  I,  for  example,  found  it 
easier  —  until  my  ear  was  cut  —  to  forget  my  position 
in  the  examination  of  this  journal  than  in  the  examin 
ation  of  the  Illustrated  London  News.  The  pictures, 
strictly  speaking,  are  not  so  good,  either  artistically  or 
morally,  but  there  is  a  tang  about  them,  an  I-do-not- 
know-what.  And  it  is  always  wisest  to  focus  attention 
on  some  such  extraneous  interest.  Otherwise  you  may 
get  to  looking  in  the  mirror. 

Do  not  do  that. 

For  one  thing,  there  is  the  impulse  to  cry  out  'Stop! 
Stop!  Don't  cut  it  all  off! 

'Oh,  barber,  spare  that  hair! 

Leave  some  upon  my  brow! 
For  months  it's  sheltered  me! 

And  I  '11  protect  it  now! 

*  Oh,  please!  P-1-e-a-s-e !  -  These  exclamations  an 
noy  a  barber,  rouse  a  demon  of  fury  in  him.  He  reaches 
for  a  machine  called  'clippers.'  Tell  him  how  to  cut 
hair,  will  you !  A  little  more  and  he  '11  shave  your  head 
—  and  not  only  half-way  either,  like  the  Norman  sol 
diery  at  the  time  of  the  Conquest!  Even  if  you  are 

I   249   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

able  to  restrain  this  impulse,  clenching  your  bib  in 
your  hands  and  perhaps  dropping  or  tearing  the  Illus 
trated  London  News,  the  mirror  gives  you  strange, 
morbid  reflections.  You  recognize  your  face,  but  your 
head  seems  somehow  separate,  balanced  on  a  kind  of 
polka-dotted  mountain  with  two  hands  holding  the 
Illustrated  London  News.  You  are  afraid  momentarily 
that  the  barber  will  lift  it  off  and  go  away  with  it.  Then 
is  the  time  to  read  furiously  the  weekly  contribution 
of  G.  K.  Chesterton.  But  your  mind  reverts  to  a  story 
you  have  been  reading  about  how  the  Tulululu  Island 
ers,  a  savage  but  ingenious  people,  preserve  the  heads 
of  their  enemies  so  that  the  faces  are  much  smaller  but 
otherwise  quite  recognizable.  You  find  yourself  look 
ing  keenly  at  the  barber  to  discover  any  possible  trace 
of  Tulululu  ancestry.  And  what  is  he  going  to  get  now? 
A  krees?  No,  a  paint-brush.  Is  he  going  to  paint  you? 
And  if  so  —  what  color?  The  question  of  color  be 
comes  strangely  important,  as  if  it  made  any  real  dif 
ference.  Green?  Red?  Purple?  Blue?  No,  he  uses 
the  brush  dry,  tickling  your  forehead,  tickling  your 
ears,  tickling  your  nose,  tickling  you  under  the  chin 
and  down  the  back  of  your  neck.  After  the  serious 
business  of  the  haircut,  a  barber  must  have  some 
relaxation . 

There  is  one  point  on  which  you  are  independent: 
you  will  not  have  the  bay  rum;  you  are  a  teetotaller. 
You  say  so  in  a  weak  voice  which  nevertheless  has 


IN  THE  CHAIR 

some  adamantine  quality  that  impresses  him.  He 
humors  you;  or  perhaps  your  preference  appeals  to  his 
sense  of  business  economy. 

He  takes  off  your  bib. 

From  a  row  of  chairs  a  man  leaps  to  his  feet,  anxious 
to  give  his  head  to  the  barber.  A  boy  hastily  sweeps 
up  the  hair  that  was  yours  —  already  as  remote  from 
you  as  if  it  had  belonged  to  the  man  who  is  always 
waiting,  and  whose  name  is  Next.  Oh,  it  is  horrible  — 
horrible  —  horrible! 


The  Passing  of  Indoors 

By  Zephine  Humphrey 

INDOORS  is  going.  We  may  just  as  well  make  up  our 
minds  on  this  revolutionary  point,  and  accept  it  with 
such  degree  of  hardy  rejoicing  or  shivering  regret  as 
our  natures  prompt  in  us. 

The  movement  has  been  long  under  way,  gradually 
working  the  perfect  ejection  which  seems  now  at  hand. 
We  might  have  recognized  the  dislodging  process  long 
ago,  had  we  been  far-sighted  enough.  It  began  —  who 
shall  say  when  it  did  begin?  Surely  not  in  the  shaggy 
breasts  of  those  rude  ancestors  of  ours  whom  we  hold 
in  such  veneration,  and  to  whose  ways  we  seem  to 
ourselves  to  be  so  wisely  returning.  They  dragged  their 
venison  into  the  depths  of  a  cave  darker  and  closer 
than  any  house,  and  devoured  it  in  great  seclusion. 
Perhaps  it  began  in  the  San  Marco  Piazza  at  Venice, 
with  the  little  open-air  tables  under  the  colonnades. 
"So  delightful!  So  charming!"  Thus  the  tourists,  as 
they  sipped  their  coffee  and  dallied  with  their  ices. 
They  were  right;  it  was  delightful  and  charming,  and 
[  252  ] 


THE  PASSING  OF  INDOORS 

so  it  is  to  this  day,  but  it  was  perhaps  the  thin  edge  of 
the  wedge  which  is  turning  us  all  out  now. 

Supper  was  the  first  regular  meal  to  follow  the  open- 
air  suggestion,  country  supper  on  the  piazza  in  the 
warm  summer  evening.  That  also  was  delightful,  of 
course,  and  not  at  all  alarming.  All  nations  and  ages 
have  practiced  the  sport  of  occasional  festive  repasts 
out  of  doors  when  the  weather  has  permitted.  But 
breakfast  was  not  long  in  following  suit;  and  when 
dinner,  that  most  conservative,  conventional  of  meals, 
succumbed  to  the  outward  pressure  and  spread  its 
congealing  gravies  in  the  chilly  air,  we  were  in  for  the 
thing  in  good  earnest,  the  new  custom  was  on.  No 
longer  a  matter  of  times  and  seasons,  the  weather  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it  now;  and  in  really  zealous  fam 
ilies  the  regular  summer  dining-room  was  out  of  doors. 
Summer  dining-room  —  that  sounds  well;  since  sum 
mer  and  warmth  go  together  traditionally.  But  not 
always  actually  in  New  England,  where  bleak  rains 
overtake  the  world  now  and  then,  and  clearing  north 
west  winds  come  racing  keenly.  It  was  soon  essential 
to  introduce  a  new  fashion  in  dinner  garments:  over 
coats,  sweaters,  and  heavy  shawls,  felt  hats  and 
mufflers. 

'Excuse  me  while  I  run  upstairs  to  get  a  pair  of 
mittens?1 

'Finish  your  soup  first,  dear;  it  will  be  quite  cold  if 
you  leave  it.' 

[   'S3   1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

The  adherents  of  the  new  doctrine  are  very  conscien 
tious  and  faithful,  as  was  only  to  be  expected.  We  are 
a  valiant  race  in  the  matter  of  our  enthusiasms  and 
can  be  trusted  to  follow  them  sturdily,  buckling  on 
armor  or  overcoats  or  whatever  other  special  equip 
ment  the  occasion  demands.  Conscientiousness  is  a 
good  trait,  but  there  is  perhaps  more  of  the  joy  of  life 
in  some  other  qualities. 

Sleeping  outdoors  was  the  next  great  phase  in  the 
open-air  movement.  That  also  began  casually  enough 
and  altogether  charmingly.  One  lingered  in  the  ham 
mock,  watching  the  stars,  musing  in  the  still  summer 
night,  until,  lo !  there  was  the  dawn  beginning  behind 
the  eastern  hills.  A  wonderful  experience.  Not  much 
sleeping  about  it  truly,  —  there  is  commonly  not  much 
sleeping  about  great  experiences,  —  but  so  beautiful 
that  the  heart  said, '  Go  to!  why  not  have  this  always? 
Why  not  sleep  outdoors  every  night?'  Which  is  of 
course  exactly  the  way  in  which  human  nature  works ; 
very  reasonable,  very  sane  and  convincing,  but  un 
fortunately  never  quite  so  successful  as  it  should  be. 
That  which  has  blessed  us  once  must  be  secured  in  per 
petuity  for  our  souls  to  feast  on  continually;  revela 
tion  must  fold  its  wings  and  abide  with  us.  So  we 
soberly  go  to  work  and  strip  all  the  poetry  of  divine 
chance,  all  the  delight  of  the  unexpected,  from  our 
great  occasions  by  laying  plans  for  their  systematic 
recurrence. 

[  254  ] 


THE  PASSING  OF  INDOORS 

He  who  bends  to  himself  a  joy, 
Does  the  winged  life  destroy; 
But  he  who  kisses  a  joy  as  it  flies, 
Lives  in  eternity's  sunrise. 

It  is  a  pity  that  William  Blake  could  not  teach  us 
that  once  for  all.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  of  course,  great 
occasions  care  nothing  at  all  for  our  urging;  and  a  plan 
is  an  institution  which  they  cordially  abhor.  The  stars 
and  the  dawn  do  not  condescend  to  such  paraphernalia 
for  waylaying  them  as  sleeping-bags,  rubber  blankets, 
air-pillows,  and  mosquito  netting,  with  a  stout  club 
close  at  hand  in  case  of  tramps  or  a  skunk. 

One  experience  of  my  own  recurs  to  my  memory 
poignantly  here,  and  I  think  I  cannot  do  better  than 
set  it  forth.  I  had  passed  an  unforgettable  night  all 
alone  in  a  meadow,  detained  by  the  evening  almost 
insensibly  into  'solemn  midnight's  tingling  silences/ 
and  thence  into  the  austere  dawn.  It  was  an  episode 
such  as  should  have  sealed  my  lips  forever;  but  I  pro 
fanely  spoke  of  it,  and  at  once  the  contagion  of  interest 
spread  through  the  little  village. 

'What  fun!  Did  you  have  your  rubbers  on?  Did 
you  sit  in  a  chair?  I  should  think  you  would  have  sat 
in  a  chair  —  so  much  more  comfortable!  Well,  I  tell 
you  what,  let's  do  it  together,  —  a  lot  of  us,  so  we 
won't  be  afraid,  —  and  let's  climb  a  mountain.  The 
sunset  and  dawn  will  be  beautiful  from  a  mountain.' 

We  did  it;  I  blush  to  confess  that  some  twenty-five 

[  255  i 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

of  us  did  it.  It  was  an  excursion  planned  and  discussed 
for  a  matter  of  two  weeks  (a  full  moon  being  part  of 
the  programme),  and  there  was  no  accident  unfore 
seen,  no  event  unprovided  for.  The  procession  that 
wended  its  way,  toiling  and  puffing,  up  the  ascent  of 
Haystack,  —  the  favored  mountain  selected  for  the 
high  pedestal  of  our  rapture,  —  on  the  auspicious  night, 
was  about  as  sad,  and  withal  as  funny,  an  affront  as 
the  secrecy  of  beauty  ever  received.  Blankets,  steamer- 
rugs,  pillows,  shawls,  hammocks,  whiskey -flasks  — 
how  we  groaned  beneath  the  burden  of  all  these  things. 
We  lost  the  way,  of  course,  and  had  to  beat  the  woods 
in  every  direction;  we  were  tired  and  hot  and  —  cross? 
Perhaps.  But  we  knew  what  our  role  was,  and  when 
we  reached  the  top  of  the  mountain,  we  all  of  us  stood 
very  solemnly  in  a  row  and  said,  'How  beautiful!' 

It  was  beautiful;  that  was  just  the  fineness  of  the 
night's  triumph  over  us  —  over  me  at  least;  I  cannot 
speak  for  the  other  twenty-four.  To  this  day,  be  it  said 
in  parentheses,  whenever  we  mention  that  night  on 
Haystack  we  lift  our  eyes  in  ecstasy,  and  no  one  of  us 
has  ever  confessed  any  sense  of  lack.  But  honestly, 
honestly  at  the  last  (dear  stalwart  relief  of  honesty!), 
that  experiment  was  a  failure  —  so  beautiful  that  the 
spirit  should  have  been  lifted  out  of  the  body,  and 
would  have  been,  had  it  stood  alone,  had  it  not  already 
exhausted  itself  in  plans  and  expectations.  Beneath  us, 
a  far-spreading  sea  of  misty,  rolling  hills,  all  vague  and 

[  256 1 


THE  PASSING  OF  INDOORS 

blended  in  the  light  of  the  soaring  moon ;  above  us,  such 
a  sweep  of  sky  as  only  mountain-tops  command ;  around 
us,  silence,  silence.  Yet  the  unstrenuous  orchard  at 
home,  with  its  tranquil  acceptance  of  such  degree  of 
sunset  light  as  was  granted  to  it,  and  of  the  moon's 
presence  when  she  rose  above  the  apple  trees,  would 
have  conveyed  the  night's  message  a  thousand  times 
more  clearly. 

It  is  seldom  worth  while  to  describe  any  failure  of  the 
spirit  very  minutely,  and  tragedy  is  not  the  tone  this 
paper  would  assume;  but  one  slight  episode  of  the  dawn 
following  that  fatal  night  must  be  related.  We  were 
gathered  on  the  eastern  edge  of  our  mountain  top,  a 
tousled,  gray,  disheveled  lot,  heavy-eyed  and  weary. 
Does  the  reader  understand  the  significance  of  the 
term  'to  prevent  the  dawn'?  He  does  if  he  has  stood 
and  waited  for  the  sun  to  rise  —  or  the  moon  or  any  of 
the  constellations,  for  that  matter.  All  heavenly  bodies 
retard  their  progress  through  the  influence  of  being 
waited  for.  'Surely  now!'  a  dozen  times  we  warned 
one  another  there,  with  our  faces  toward  the  quicken 
ing  east;  yet  no  glittering,  lambent  rim  slid  up  to  greet 
our  eyes. 

At  last  a  decent  comely  cloud  came  to  the  rescue 
of  the  sun,  halting  and  embarrassed,  and  settled  snugly 
all  about  the  mountain  of  the  day-spring.  Into  this  the 
sun  was  born,  so  obscurely  that  it  rode  high  above  the 
mountain's  edge,  shorn  and  dull,  a  rubber  ball,  before 

1 257  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

we  discovered  it.  'Why —  why — '  some  one  began, 
stammering;  and  then  there  was  a  dramatic  pause. 
Brave  and  determined  though  we  were  in  our  pursuit 
of  ecstasy,  we  could  not  burst  forth  into  song  like  Mem- 
non  statues  at  the  sight  of  that  belated  orange,  'Lo, 
the  Lord  Sun!'  Not  at  all.  It  was  the  merest  varlet.  In 
this  dilemma  of  our  hearts,  a  funny  little  wailing  cry 
came  from  the  cliff's  edge :  '  I  want  my  money  back !  I 
want  my  money  back ! '  It  was  a  perfect  commentary 
on  the  whole  situation,  as  fine  and  humorous  and  true 
an  utterance  as  could  be  asked  on  the  foiled  occasion. 
We  laughed  at  it,  and  all  the  air  was  straightway 
clearer  for  us.  Then  down  the  mountain-side  we 
trooped,  and  went  home  to  bed. 

Of  course  I  am  not  unaware  of  the  impatience  of 
some  readers,  if  they  have  taken  pains  to  scan  so  far 
this  earnest  exposition.  The  outdoor  movement  is  not 
one  primarily  of  sentiment,  but  of  health  and  happi 
ness;  and  the  story  just  related  is  aside  from  the  point. 
That  may  be  true.  I  certainly  stand  in  respect  of  the 
great  claims  of  the  physical  side  of  the  subject,  and 
would  not  deal  with  them.  By  all  means,  let  all  people 
be  as  well  as  possible.  But  it  is  still  the  other  side,  the 
side  of  sentiment  and  rapture,  which  is  most  pleadingly 
tnd  often  brought  home  to  me. 

It  is  pitiful  how  helpless  we  are  against  the  invasions 
of  a  new  enthusiasm  like  this  —  we  sober,  conservative 
folk.  I  still  sleep  in  my  bed,  in  my  room,  but  the  sat- 

i  258 1 


THE  PASSING  OF  INDOORS 

isfaction  I  used  to  take  in  the  innocent  practice  is 
broken  of  late  by  haunting  fears  that  I  may  not  be  able 
to  keep  it  up.  My  friends  will  not  let  me  alone. 

'Of  all  things!  why  don't  you  sleep  out  here,  on  this 
little  upper  piazza?  Precisely  the  place!  I  can't  under 
stand  how  you  can  ignore  such  an  opportunity.' 

'Well,  you  see,'  —  my  answer  was  glib  at  first,  - 
'  the  piazza  overhangs  the  road,  and  the  milk-wagons 
go  by  very  early.  I  don't  want  to  get  up  at  four  o'clock 
every  morning.' 

'They  could  n't  see  much  of  you,  I  should  think,'  — 
with  a  thoughtful  measuring  glance,  —  '  not  more  than 
your  toes  and  the  tip  of  your  nose.J 

'Oh,  thank  you,  that's  quite  enough!' 

'  Well,  you  might  saw  off  the  legs  of  a  cot,  to  bring  it 
below  the  railing.  Or  just  a  mattress  spread  on  the  floor 
would  do  very  well.' 

Just  a  mattress  spread  on  the  floor!  That  closes  the 
argument.  I  have  no  spirit  left  to  prefer  any  other  ob 
jections  to  these  dauntless  souls,  such  as  the  rain  (the 
piazza  has  no  roof).  But  what  would  a  cold  bath  be  if 
not  distinctly  so  much  to  the  good  in  view  of  the  toilet 
operations  of  the  following  morning?  There  is  no 
course  left  me  but  that  final  one,  —  which  should  in 
honesty  have  come  first,  —  of  damning  myself  by  the 
hopeless  assertion,  'I  don't  want  to  sleep  out  of  doors.' 
This  locks  the  argument,  and  the  barrier  stands  com 
plete,  shutting  me  off  in  a  world  by  myself,  interrupting 

[   259   1   ' 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

the  genial  flow  of  sympathetic  friendship.  But  I  love 
my  friends.  Therefore  it  follows  that  I  tremble  for  my 
further  repose  in  my  bed.  I  fear  I  shall  yet  utter  mid 
night  sighs  on  that  piazza  floor. 

Indoors,  dear  indoors!  I  would  I  might  plead  its 
cause  a  little  here.  Does  no  one  ever  pause  to  reflect 
that  there  was  never  any  outdoors  at  all  until  indoors 
was  created?  The  two  had  a  simultaneous  birth,  but  it 
was  an  appurtenance  of  the  latter  that  marked  the  dis 
tinction  and  gave  the  names.  A  little  humiliating  that 
might  have  seemed  to  any  creatures  less  generous  than 
woods  and  mountains  —  to  have  been  here  really  from 
the  beginning,  ages  and  ages  in  glorious  life,  and  then 
to  take  their  first  generic  name,  find  their  first  classifi 
cation,  all  of  them  in  a  lump  together  (what  a  lump!) 
as  the  other  side  of  a  fragile  barrier  to  a  mushroom  con 
struction.  One  wonders  that  those  who  exalt  the  out 
doors  as  everything  nowadays,  do  not  find  some  bet 
ter  title  for  it  than  its  dooryard  term.  But  those  who 
love  the  indoors  too,  though  they  may  smile  at  the 
calm  presumption  of  its  dubbing  the  universe,  accept 
the  conclusion  without  any  question.  Man  is  after  all 
the  creature  of  creatures,  and  his  life  is  of  first  impor 
tance.  We  do  not  hear  that  the  woodchuck  speaks  of 
out-hole,  or  the  bird  of  out-tree. 

Such  life  of  man  is  an  inner  thing,  intensely  inner;  its 
essence  lies  in  its  inwardness.  It  can  hardly  know  it 
self  'all  abroad';  it  must  needs  have  devised  for  itself  a 
[  260  ] 


THE  PASSING  OF  INDOORS 

shelter  as  soon  as  it  came  to  self-consciousness,  a  refuge, 
not  only  from  storm  and  cold  but  from  the  distracting 
variety  of  the  extensive  world.  Indoors  is  really  an 
august  symbol,  a  very  grave  and  reverend  thing,  if  we 
apprehend  it  rightly.  It  stands  for  the  separate  life  of 
man,  apart  from  (though  still  a  part  of,  too)  the  rest  of 
the  universe.  Take  any  one  room  inhabited  daily  by 
a  person  of  strong  individuality,  — how  alive  it  is! 
How  brisk  and  alert  in  the  very  attitudes  of  the  chairs 
and  the  pictures  on  the  walls!  Or,  more  happily,  how 
serene  and  reposeful!  Or  how  matter-of-fact!  Morbid 
and  passionate,  flippant,  austere,  boisterous,  decorous, 
—  anything,  everything  a  room  may  be  which  a  human 
creature  may  be;  and  that  range,  as  most  of  us  know,  is 
almost  unlimited. 

It  is  hard  to  understand  how  any  person  can  fail  to 
respond  to  the  warm  appeal  of  his  own  abode.  Say  one 
has  been  abroad  all  day  (another  term  that  assumes 
the  house  as  a  starting-point),  climbing  the  mountains, 
exploring  the  woods,  ravishing  eyes  and  heart  with  the 
beauty  of  the  excellent  world.  Night  comes  at  last, 
and  weariness  droops  upon  the  flesh.  Enough!  Even 
the  spirit's  cry  finds  a  pause.  Enough,  enough!  The 
wide  world  suddenly  spreads  so  vast  that  it  overwhelms 
and  frightens;  there  is  something  pitiless  in  the  reach 
of  the  unbounded  sky.  Then,  as  fast  as  they  can,  the 
lagging  feet  make  for  a  point  on  the  hillside  where  the 
eyes  can  command  the  valley,  and  swiftly,  eagerly  flies 
[  261  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

the  glance  to  one  dear  accustomed  goal.  A  white  house 
nestled  among  the  trees,  —  that  is  all,  yet  it  thrills  the 
heart  with  a  potent  summons  which  mountain-peaks 
and  sunsets  do  not  know.  Home!  Ah,  hurry,  then! 

Down  the  hill,  across  the  pasture,  in  at  the  white 
gate,  and  up  the  two  marble  steps.  The  front  door 
stands  open  unconcernedly.  The  house  makes  no  stir 
at  receiving  its  inmate  back,  —  its  inmate  whose  life  it 
has  held  and  brooded  during  his  absence,  waiting  to  re 
invest  him  with  it  when  he  wants  it  again,  —  but  there 
is  a  quiet  sense  of  welcome,  a  content  of  returning, 
which  is  among  the  sweetest  and  most  establishing  of 
human  experiences.  The  clock  ticks  steadily  in  the  hall, 
its  hands  approaching  the  genial  hour  of  supper-time. 
Within  the  open  library  door,  the  books  dream  on  the 
shelves.  Little  sounds  of  a  tranquil  preparation  come 
from  the  dining-room;  the  tea-kettle  sings,  the  black 
kitten  purrs.  Blessed  indoors!  It  draws  a  veil  gently 
over  the  tired  head,  bewildered  with  much  marveling, 
lays  a  cool  hand  over  the  eyes,  says,  'Now  rest,  rest.' 
Indoors  is  like  the  Guardian  Angel  in  Browning's  poem. 

After  supper,  one  sits  by  the  lamp  and  reads  peace 
fully.  Aunt  Susan  reads,  too,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
big  table,  and  Cousin  Jane  sews.  The  books  and  the 
pictures  look  on  benignly,  and  even  the  furniture  is 
instinct  with  a  mute  eloquence  of  companionship.  The 
song  of  the  night  insects  throbs  without,  and  millers 
hurl  themselves  with  soft  thuds  against  the  windows; 


THE  PASSING  OF  INDOORS 

an  owl  mutters  to  himself  in  the  maple  tree.  But  not 
for  anything  would  one  go  out,  not  for  anything  would 
one  leave  this  glowing,  brooding,  protecting  indoors 
which  one  has  regained.  After  a  while,  one  goes  up 
stairs  and  lays  one's  self  in  the  safe  white  bed  in  one's 
own  room.  The  windows  are  open  to  the  night,  but 
solid  walls  are  all  round  about;  and,  before  the  sleepily 
closing  eyes,  gleam  one's  own  peculiar  cherished  be 
longings  in  the  creeping  moonlight.  Into  the  very  heart 
of  one's  life  one  has  returned  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
and  there  one  goes  to  sleep.  'In  returning  and  rest 
shall  ye  be  saved;  in  quietness  and  in  confidence  shall 
be  your  strength.' 

And  we  will  not?  Is  the  discouraged  clause,  promptly 
succeeding  to  that  most  beautiful  verse  of  Isaiah,  true, 
then,  of  us?  Are  we  going  to  despoil  ourselves  of  all  the 
poetry,  the  intimate  meaning  of  our  indoor  life? 

1 A  place  in  which  to  dress  and  undress  —  that  is  all 
I  want  of  a  house,'  an  energetic  young  woman  said. 

A  bath-house  would  suit  her  perfectly.  Perhaps  that 
is  what  we  are  coming  to  —  rows  of  bath-houses,  with 
sleeping-bags  stored  up  in  them  against  the  night.  Alas 
for  the  pictures !  Alas  for  the  music !  Alas  for  the  books ! 

The  books!  There  is  a  happy  suggestion.  I  believe 
the  books  will  save  us.  There  is  certainly  nothing  that 
objects  with  greater  decision  and  emphasis  to  sleeping 
out  of  doors  than  a  book  —  yes,  even  a  volume  of  Walt 
Whitman.  Books  are  obstinate  in  their  way;  they  know 

i  263  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

their  own  minds,  and  there  are  some  things  which  they 
will  not  do.  The  effect  of  leaving  one  in  the  orchard  in 
advertently  over  night  has  a  final  melancholy  about  it 
which  most  book-lovers  understand  poignantly.  Could 
books  be  printed  on  india  rubber  and  bound  in  water 
proof  cloth?  Perhaps ;  but  the  method  does  not  sound 
attractive  enough  to  be  feasible  even  in  these  practi 
cal  days.  No,  I  believe  the  books  will  save  us.  They 
are  a  great  army  and  they  have  power;  a  steady  con 
servative  hold  is  theirs  on  their  restless  owners.  Other 
threatening  situations,  they  have  saved  and  are  con 
stantly  saving. 

'I  sometimes  think  I'd  give  up  housekeeping,  and 
not  have  a  home  any  more,'  one  woman  said,  'if  it 
were  n't  for  my  books.  But  I  can't  part  with  them,  nor 
yet  can  I  get  them  all  into  one  room;  so  here  I  stay.' 

'Buy  books?'  exclaimed  a  New  York  man.  'No;  it 
hurts  them  too  much  to  move  them.' 

Which  innocent  implication  has  caused  me  many  a 
thoughtful  smile. 

Essentially  human,  —  with  the  humanity  of  the 
ages,  not  of  a  few  decades,  —  books  understand  what 
man  really  wants,  and  what  he  must  have,  better  than 
he  does  himself.  In  the  serene  and  gracious  indoors, 
they  took  up  their  places  long  ago,  and  there  they  re 
main,  and  there  they  will  always  make  shift  to  abide. 
Perhaps,  if  we  sit  down  close  at  their  feet,  we,  too,  may 
abide. 


The  Contented  Heart 

By  Lucy  Elliot  Keeler 

C(EUR  Content,  grand  Talent,  runs  the  motto  of  one 
of  my  friends;  which  early  led  me  to  dub  her,  Contented 
Heart.  Is  it  not  human  nature,  such  easy  assumption 
of  an  interesting  aspiration  as  a  fact  to  be  posted?  As 
logical  as  to  expect  Mr.  Short  to  check  his  stature  at 
five  feet  two;  as  humanly  contrary  as  for  the  Blacks  to 
name  their  girls  Lily,  Blanche,  and  Pearl.  They  usually 
do.  I  remember  a  Bermudian  rector,  leaning  down  to 
inquire  the  name  of  the  black  baby  to  be  christened, 
suddenly  quickened  into  audibility  by  the  mother's 
reply:  ' Keren-Happuck,  sir,  yes,  sir,  one  of  the  Miss 
Jobs,  sir/  Now  Job's  daughters  were  fairest  among  the 
daughters  of  men. 

Contented  Heart  has  obsessed  my  mind  of  late.  I 
like  to  take  the  other  side :  everybody  does.  Does  like 
to  and  does ;  and  because  the  air  to-day  is  redolent  of 
unrest  and  discontent,  I  put  in  the  assertion  that, 
nevertheless,  the  great  majority  of  my  acquaintances 
possess  that  great  talent,  —  translate  it  knack,  or 
translate  it  acquirement,  —  a  contented  heart.  I  sel- 

[  265  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

dom  talk  intimately  with  anybody  but  I  hear  some 
thing  like  this :  — 

*I  have  been  visiting  at  the  X's.  What  a  superb 
place!  but  I  do  not  envy  them.  Think  of  the  care  and 
expense  and  the  servant  question.  Simple  as  my  cot  is, 
I  honestly  prefer  it.'  Or,  *  What  a  fortune  the  H's  ap 
pear  to  have.  It  would  be  comfortable  to  get  what  one 
wants  and  go  where  one  wishes;  not  to  worry  at  tax- 
paying  time  and  new-suit  time.  Still  I  doubt  if  they 
get  half  the  enjoyment  from  their  acquisitions  that  we 
do  who  have  to  save  and  plan  for  ours.'  Or,  'You  do 
not  use  eye-glasses?  How  fortunate!  they  are  such  a 
nuisance.  But  hush  —  such  a  boon.  I  should  be  help 
less  without  them.  I  am  not  sure  but  it  is  even  a  good 
thing  to  be  born  with  them  on,  so  to  speak.  My  con 
temporaries  who  are  beginning  to  use  them  are  most 
unhappy,  while  glasses  are  just  a  part  of  my  face/  Or, 
'It  is  a  great  affliction  to  be  deaf  in  even  one  ear.  The 
person  on  that  one  side  of  you  thinks  you  prefer  the 
conversation  of  the  person  on  the  other  side.  Yet,  as 
my  brother  said  when  he  saw  me  struggling  to  make 
out  a  dull  speaker's  words, "  Why  abuse  your  natural 
advantage?" 

How  do  people  with  two  good  ears  sleep?  They  can 
not  bury  them  both  in  the  pillow.  Suppose  our  ears 
were  so  sensitive  that  we  noticed  every  footstep  on  the 
street!  Being  deaf  is  merely  to  enjoy  some  of  the  ad 
vantages  that  the  society  to  prevent  unnecessary 
[  266  1 


THE  CONTENTED  HEART 

noises  seeks  to  confer  on  a  normal  public.  We  admire 
a  beautiful  face  and  then  add,  'But  how  she  must  hate 
to  grow  old;  a  tragedy  of  the  mirror  that  we  homely 
souls  are  spared.'  All  my  life  I  envied  persons  with 
straight  noses  till  I  began  to  observe  that  with  age  the 
straight  nose  droops  into  a  beak,  whereas  the  youthful 
tip-tilt  and  concavity  kind  straightens  its  end  to  a  fair 
classicism.  Thus  others  than  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield 
draw  upon  content  for  the  deficiencies  of  fortune. 

Of  course  content  is  dilemma  enough  to  have  its  two 
horns:  the  double  peaks  of  taking  life  too  easily,  and  of 
taking  it  too  hard.  In  his  statue  of  Christ,  Thor- 
valdsen  expressed  his  conviction  that  he  had  reached 
his  culminating  point,  —  since  he  had  never  been  so 
satisfied  with  any  work  before,  —  and  was  '  alarmed 
that  I  am  satisfied.'  That '  the  people  ask  nothing  bet 
ter  '  is  the  slogan  of  the  grafter.  No  reform  comes  with 
out  its  preceding  period  of  discontent;  dissatisfaction 
is  the  price  to  be  paid  for  better  things ;  a  revolutionary 
attitude  must  be  maintained.  Stevenson  knew  a  Welsh 
blacksmith  who  at  twenty-five  could  neither  read  nor 
write,  at  which  time  he  heard  a  chapter  of  Robinson 
Crusoe  read  aloud  in  a  farm  kitchen.  Up  to  that  mo 
ment  he  had  sat  content,  huddled  in  his  ignorance;  but 
he  left  the  kitchen  another  man.  There  were  day 
dreams,  it  appeared,  divine  day-dreams,  written  and 
printed  and  bound,  and  to  be  bought  for  money  and 
enjoyed  at  pleasure.  Down  he  sat  that  day,  painfully 

[  267 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

learned  to  read  Welsh,  and  returned  to  borrow  the 
book.  It  had  been  lost,  nor  could  he  find  another  copy, 
only  one  in  English.  Down  he  sat  once  more,  learned 
English,  and  at  length  with  entire  delight  read  Robin 
son. 

As  there  is  a  noble  way  of  being  discontented,  so 
there  is  an  ignoble  content.  The  Contented  Heart  is 
not  a  phrase  to  soothe  us,  but  a  power  to  work  results. 
It  must  constantly  emerge  upon  a  higher  plane,  or  it 
will  fall.  Few  of  us  would  be  willing  to  retain  just  the 
personal  habits  that  we  have  now.  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot 
drove  his  sister  out  of  her  literary  inertia  when  he  bet 
gloves  to  ribbons  that  she  could  not  write  a  modern 
ballad  on  the  Flowers  of  the  Forest.  The  result  is  one 
of  the  most  popular  songs  of  Scotland.  There  is  also  a 
sham  content  whose  practitioners  often  get  their '  cum- 
uppances'  as  effectively  as  did  Thomas  Raikes.  The 
Duchess  of  York  led  him  about  her  garden,  where  was 
a  menagerie  crowded  with  eagles  and  some  favorite 
macaws.  A  herd  of  kangaroos  and  ostriches  appeared 
and  a  troop  of  monkeys.  Next  morning  a  kangaroo 
and  a  macaw  strolled  into  Raikes's  bedroom.  He  was 
too  much  of  a  courtier  to  tell  his  terror.  At  breakfast 
he  said,  'If  I  like  one  creature  more  than  another  it  is 
a  kangaroo,  while  there  is  nothing  so  good  for  a  bed 
room  sentinel  as  a  strong-legged  macaw.'  The  good 
Duchess  smiled  pleasantly  and  put  Raikes  down  in  her 
will  for  two  macaws. 

[    268   ] 


THE  CONTENTED  HEART 

A  certain  kind  of  content  enlivens  us  with  the  bliss 
of  others'  ignorance.  Tacitus  was  one  of  the  first  his 
torians  in  our  modern  sense,  yet  he  described  a  mo 
tionless  frozen  sea  in  the  north  from  which  a  hiss  is 
heard  as  the  sun  plunges  down  into  it  at  night;  and 
Pliny  noted  that  the  reflection  of  mirrors  is  due  to  the 
percussion  of  the  air  thrown  back  upon  the  eyes.  Kip 
ling  laughed  slyly  at  the  traveler  in  India  who  spent 
his  time  gazing  at  the  names  of  the  railway  stations  in 
Baedeker.  When  the  train  rushed  through  a  station  he 
would  draw  a  line  through  the  name  and  say,  'I've 
done  that.'  Satisfaction  with  our  learning  is  confined 
to  no  age  or  nation.  Two  Frenchmen  in  a  restaurant 
showing  off  their  English  opined, '  It  deed  rain  to-mor 
row.'  'Yes,  it  was.'  Satisfaction  with  virtue  was  re 
buked  by  Francis  de  Sales  when  he  told  the  nuns,  who 
asked  to  go  barefoot,  to  keep  their  shoes  and  change 
their  brains.  Satisfaction  with  our  importance  recalls 
Harlequin,  who  when  asked  what  he  was  doing  on  his 
paper  throne  replied  that  he  was  reigning.  Satisfac 
tion  with  our  future  is  the  satisfaction  of  the  eighth 
square  of  the  chessboard  where  we  shall  all  be  queens 
together,  and  it's  all  feasting  and  fun. 

I  would  not,  as  advocate  of  the  Contented  Heart,  go 
so  far  as  Walt  Whitman  when  he  said  that  whoever 
was  without  his  volume  of  poems  should  be  assassin 
ated;  but  his  remark  suggests  that  extreme  measures 
are  frequently  curative.  Stanislaus  of  Poland  did  not 
[  269  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

hesitate  to  recall  to  his  daughter  the  bad  days  they  had 
undergone.  'See,  Marie,  how  Providence  cares  for 
good  people:  you  had  not  even  a  chemise  in  1725,  and 
now  you  are  Queen  of  France.'  To  take  up  Dante  and 
read  about  devils  boiled  in  pitch  must  by  comparison 
cheer  morbid  humans.  The  spectacle  of  tragedy  in  the 
lives  of  kings  and  favorites  of  the  gods  such  as  the 
Greek  stage  presented  was  believed  to  be  wholesome 
because  beholders  thereby  faced  a  scale  of  misfortune 
so  much  exceeding  anything  in  their  own  lives  that 
their  mishaps  appeared  of  slight  importance  in  com 
parison.  I  know  that  after  seeing  (Edipus  Rex  given 
by  the  three  Salvinis  and  others  in  the  old  amphi 
theatre  in  Fiesole,  I  went  off  murmuring,  'What  does 
it  matter  if  my  trunk  is  lost ! '  a  state  of  mind  to  which 
no  slighter  argument  had  sufficed  to  bring  me.  Surely 
life  is  too  interesting  to  spend  it  all  knocking  off  its 
pretty  scallops  by  armless  exaggeration  of  small  trou 
bles,  or  hanging  out  our  large  ones  to  flap  the  passer-by. 
Besides  which,  we  get  no  more  sympathy  from  the 
passer-by  than  did  Giant  Despair  who  sometimes,  in 
sunshiny  weather,  fell  into  fits. 

Captivating  as  a  'born,'  a  fortuitous,  untrained  con 
tent  may  be,  trained  content  is  of  a  finer  type.  One  is 
quantity  content,  the  other  quality  content.  Not  to 
smash  things  up  and  make  them  over  just  as  we  want 
them,  which  we  should  like  to  do  but  cannot;  not  to 
waste  our  time  fighting  against  conditions,  but  to  take 
[  270  ] 


THE  CONTENTED  HEART 

up  those  conditions,  that  environment,  and  out  of 
them  forge  the  ces  triplex  of  a  contented  heart  —  that, 
I  take  it,  is  to  be  an  adept  in  the  fine  art  of  living,  and 
I  for  one  am  votary. 

That  the  most  restless  heart  can  train  itself  to  find 
content  in  simple,  commonplace  things,  like  work,  na 
ture,  health,  books,  meditation,  and  friends,  —  illus 
trations  are  bewilderingly  abundant.  Burne- Jones 
said  he  would  like  to  stay  right  in  his  own  house  for 
numberless  years,  the  hope  of  getting  on  with  his  paint 
ing  was  happiness  enough.  Macaulay  would  '  rather  be 
a  poor  man  in  a  garret  with  plenty  of  books  than  a 
king  who  did  not  love  reading ' ;  and  King  James  said 
that  if  he  were  not  a  king  he  would  be  a  university 'man, 
and  if  it  were  so  that  he  must  be  a  prisoner  he  would 
desire  no  other  durance  than  to  be  chained  in  the  Bod 
leian  Library  with  so  many  noble  authors.  Carlyle's 
chief  luxury  was  'to  think  and  smoke  tobacco,  with  a 
new  clay  pipe  every  day,  put  on  the  doorstep  at  night 
for  any  poor  brother-smoker  or  souvenir-hunter  to 
carry  away/ 

All  Diogenes  wanted  was  that  Alexander  and  his 
men  should  stand  from  between  him  and  the  sun. 
Goethe  found  content  in  Nature  and  earnest  activity; 
and  the  happy  Turk  told  Candide  that  he  had  twenty 
acres  of  land  which  he  cultivated  with  his  children, 
work  which  put  them  far  from  great  evils :  ennui,  vice, 
and  need,  —  'II  faut  cultiver  notre  jardin.'  Diocle- 

[  271  i 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

tian,  one  of  the  cleverest  of  the  Roman  emperors, 
reigned  twenty-two  years  and  then  retired  to  private 
life  in  Dalmatia,  building,  planting,  and  gardening. 
Solicited  by  Maximian  to  resume  the  imperial  purple, 
he  replied  that  if  he  could  show  Maximian  the  cabbages 
which  he  had  planted  with  his  own  hands  he  would  no 
longer  be  urged  to  relinquish  his  enjoyment  of  happi 
ness  for  the  pursuit  of  power.  Fanny  Kemble  lived  all 
summer  in  the  Alps,  the  guides  describing  her  exquis 
itely  as  the  lady  who  goes  singing  over  the  mountains. 
Pedaretus,  being  left  out  of  the  election  of  the  three 
hundred,  went  home  merry,  saying  that  it  did  him 
good  to  find  there  were  three  hundred  better  than  him 
self  in  the  city.  St.  Augustine  on  his  thirty-third  birth 
day  gave  his  friends  a  moderate  feast  followed  by  a 
three  days'  discussion  of  the  Happy  Life.  Bunyan 
wrote  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  not  to  please  his  neigh 
bors,  but  his  own  self  to  satisfy;  in  prison,  too. 

Catherine  of  Siena,  whatever  her  sufferings,  was 
always  jocund,  'ever  laughing  in  the  Lord.'  The  blind 
Madame  du  Deffand  rejoiced  that  her  affliction  was 
not  rheumatism;  Spurgeon's  receipt  for  contentment 
was  never  to  chew  pills,  but  to  swallow  the  disagree 
able  and  have  done  with  it;  Darwin's  comfort  was  that 
he  had  never  consciously  done  anything  to  gain  ap 
plause;  and  Jefferson  never  ceased  affirming  his  belief 
in  the  satisfying  power  of  common  daylight,  common 
pleasures,  and  all  the  common  relations  of  life.  Essi- 
l  272  ] 


THE  CONTENTED  HEART 

poff ,  when  commiserated  on  the  smallness  of  her  hands, 
insisted  that  longer  ones  would  be  cumbersome.  Rob 
ert  Schauffler's  specific  for  a  blue  Monday  is  to  whistle 
all  the  Brahms  tunes  he  can  remember.  Dr.  Cuyler, 
when  very  ill,  replied  to  a  relative's  suggestion  of  the 
glorious  company  waiting  him  above,  'I've  got  all 
eternity  to  visit  with  those  old  fellows;  I  am  in  no 
hurry  to  go';  and  old  Aunt  Mandy,  when  asked  why 
she  was  so  constantly  cheerful,  replied,  'Lor',  chile, 
I  jes'  wear  this  world  like  a  loose  garment.' 

Acts,  all  these,  the  flinging  out  of  hand  or  tongue 
against  adverse  fortune.  The  brain  can  do  it,  too.  One 
of  the  most  remarkable  statements  I  ever  heard  is 
Mary  Antin's  that  she  never  had  a  dull  hour  in  her  life. 
Now,  outside  things,  doings,  could  not  so  have  thrilled 
her  days.  Her  spirit  kept  dullness  distant.  On  the 
rafters  of  Montaigne's  tower-room  was  written  in 
Greek,  '  It  is  not  so  much  things  that  torment  man  as 
the  opinion  that  he  has  of  things.'  Our  opinions  then 
make  the  contented  or  the  discontented  heart.  Cole 
ridge  affirmed  the  shaping  power  of  imagination  to  be 
so  vitally  human  that  the  joy  of  life  consists  in  it. 
Haydon's  chief  pleasure  was  'feeding  on  his  own 
thoughts.'  'Make  for  yourselves  nests  of  pleasant 
thoughts,'  Ruskin  urged.  'Whether  God  gave  the 
Venetians  St.  Mark's  bones  does  not  matter,'  he  says 
elsewhere, '  but  he  gave  them  real  joy  and  peace  in  their 
imagined  treasure,  more  than  we  have  in  our  real  ones/ 
[  273  ] 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

Lord  Rosebery  urges  people  to  garden  in  winter  in  the 
imagination.  Stevenson  writes  of  the  ease  and  pleasure 
of  travels  in  the  calendar  and  a  voyage  in  the  atlas;  and 
Keats  thought  that  a  man  might  pass  a  very  pleasant 
life  by  reading  certain  pages  of  poetry  and  wandering 
with  them  and  musing  and  dreaming  upon  them. 

It  is  the  mood  that  makes  the  contented  heart,  just 
as  the  eye  makes  the  horizon,  and  we  ourselves  make 
the  light  that  we  see  things  by.  Clothes  warm  us  only 
by  keeping  our  own  heat  in.  '  Everyone  is  well  or  ill  at 
ease,'  says  Epictetus,  ' according  as  he  finds  himself; 
not  he  whom  the  world  believes  but  himself  believes  to 
be  so  is  content.'  To  be  concrete,  take  riches.  '  Greedy 
fools,'  sings  the  modern  poet, 

'  Measure  themselves  by  poor  men  never; 
Their  standard  being  still  richer  men 
Makes  them  poor  ever.' 

The  rich  man  is  merely  one  who  has  something  to 
spare;  and  the  really  poor  one  he  who  has  nothing  over. 
If  you  can  give  anything  you  are  rich.  Try  it.  An  old 
man  tells  me  how  Mark  Hopkins  used  to  examine  the 
boys  in  the  Westminster  Catechism:  'What  is  the 
chief  end  of  man? J  '  To  glorify  God  and  enjoy  him  for 
ever.'  'Well,'  he  burst  forth,  'why  don't  you  do  it 
then?'  It  is  not  conceit,  but  hygiene  of  the  soul,  to 
'enjoy  one's  self,'  taking  the  conventional  phrase  lit 
erally.  The  trick  of  happiness,  says  Walt  Whitman,  is 
to  tone  down  your  wants  and  tastes  low  enough;  and 


THE  CONTENTED  HEART 

Stevenson  puts  in  his  say  that  the  true  measure  of  suc 
cess  is  appreciation:  'I  stand  more  in  need  of  a  deeper 
sense  of  contentment  with  life  than  of  knowledge  of  the 
Bulgarian  tongue.'  What  would  the  possession  of  a 
thousand  a  year  avail,  asks  Thackeray,  to  one  who  was 
allowed  to  enjoy  it  only  with  the  condition  of  wearing 
a  shoe  with  a  couple  of  nails  in  it? 

Take  knowledge,  not  to  be  confounded  with  wisdom, 
-'I  have  none/ sang  Keats's  thrush,  'and  yet  the 
evening  listens.'  It  did  not  hurt  Horace 

if  others  be 

More  rich  or  better  read  than  me, 
Each  has  his  place. 

Montaigne  would  rather  be  more  content  and  less 
knowing;  and  there  is  Lessing's  great  confession  of 
faith:  that  if  God  in  his  right  hand  held  all  truth,  and 
in  his  left  the  striving  for  truth,  'if  he  should  say  to  me, 
"Choose,"  I  would  say,  "Father,  give  me  this  striving, 
pure  truth  is  for  thee  alone.'" 

Take  work.  Do  you  complain  of  it?  Try  doing 
more,  of  a  productive  sort.  An  engine-builder  received 
complaint  that  his  engine  burned  too  much  coal.  'How 
many  cars  on  the  train?'  was  the  telegraphed  query, 
with  the  reply,  'Four.'  'Try  twelve,'  went  the  pre 
scription,  and  the  train  drew  twelve  with  economy  of 
fuel.  'Your  brain  tired?'  William  James  echoed  a  stu 
dent.  'Never  mind,  work  straight  on  and  your  brain 
will  get  its  second  wind.'  I  myself  do  not  know  of  any 

i  275 1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

anodyne  surer  and  quicker  than  that  found  in  the  gar 
den.  When  all  the  world  is  askew,  dibbling  in  seedlings 
in  straight  rows  is  a  wonderful  solace.  Why  do  so  many 
women  treat  domesticity  as  drudgery?  Its  infinite  va 
riety,  so  unlike  the  monotonous  tasks  of  men,  often 
wearies  the  mind,  but  like  Chesterton  I  do  not  see 
how  it  can  narrow  it.  And  socialism,  with  its  cry  of 
armchairs  for  workingmen!  Armchairs,  as  Creighton 
nobly  says,  will  bring  no  lasting  happiness;  but  to 
quicken  a  human  being,  even  one's  self,  into  a  sense 
of  the  meaning  of  his  life  and  destiny,  that  is  a  real 
happiness. 

Take  sorrow.  Is  it  not  infinitely  better  to  have  loved 
and  lost  than  never  to  have  loved  at  all?  Are  there  not 
many  good  moments  in  life  which  outweigh  its  great 
est  sorrows? 

Take  overpressure.  Luther  advised  Melanchthon 
to  stop  managing  the  universe  and  let  the  Almighty 
do  it;  and  Dr.  Trumbull  preached l  the  duty  of  refusing 
to  do  good.' 

Take  the  grief  caused  by  others.  One  of  the  bravest 
women  I  know  used  in  times  of  anxiety  to  gather  her 
little  children  about  her  and  say  gayly,  'Now  I  will 
make  some  graham  gems,  and  open  some  marmalade, 
and  we  will  take  a  little  comfort.'  Solomon  or  Aris 
totle  could  have  done  no  more. 

Take,  for  a  smile's  sake,  the  weather.  It  may  be  bad, 
but  as  we  cannot  change  it,  the  thing  is  our  attitude 
[  276  ] 


THE  CONTENTED  HEART 

toward  it;  and  as  dark  enshrouds  us,  'The  sun  is  set/ 
said  Mr.  Inglesant,  cheerfully;  'but  it  will  rise  again. 
Let  us  go  home.' 

In  such  ways  as  these  the  right-minded  person  will 
meet  his  discontents  face  to  face,  and  one  by  one  elim 
inate  them.  He  will  also  take  stock  of  his  assets.  St. 
Teresa  said  that  by  thinking  of  heaven  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  every  day  one  might  hope  to  deserve  it. 
Why  do  we  not  deliberately  devote  some  minutes  each 
day  to  saying  to  ourselves, '  I  am  tolerably  well ;  I  have 
food  and  shelter;  everybody  so  far  as  I  know  respects 
me,  and  a  few  persons  love  me  truly.  I  have  books  and 
a  garden,  the  stars  and  the  sea.  I  enjoy  this  and  that, 
and  before  long  the  other.  The  thing  so  long  dreaded 
has  never  come  to  pass.  I  will  embark  at  any  rate  for 
the  land  of  the  Contented  Heart.'  Would  not  such  a 
conscious  recapitulation  be  an  actual  force  building  up 
this  thing  of  which  we  talk? 

Can  content  be  conveyed?  Can  it  be  passed  from 
one  who  has  it  to  one  who  has  it  not  —  as  one  lamp 
lights  another  nor  grows  less?  I  wonder  what  would  be 
the  effect  of  a  group  of  young  women,  lately  conning 
over  in  college  class  — 

With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least  — 

if  they  should  resolve  to  stop  all  that,  and,  undeterred 
by  others'  estimate  of  values,  be  trustees  of  their  own 
content,  not  suffering  it  to  be  contingent  upon  the 

[    277    1 


ATLANTIC  CLASSICS 

manners  and  conduct  of  others?  I  believe  that  it  would 
act  like  the  magnet,  which  not  only  attracts  the  needle 
but  infuses  it  with  the  power  of  drawing  others.  Great- 
heart  so  inspired  the  travelers  that  Christiana  seized 
her  viol  and  Mercy  her  lute,  and,  as  they  made  sweet 
music,  Ready- to-Halt  took  Despondency's  daughter, 
Mrs.  Much-Afraid,  by  the  hand  and  together  they 
went  dancing  down  the  road. 

Which  is  apropos  of  my  contention  that  the  Con 
tented  Heart  is  not  so  rare! 


THE   END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .   S    .   A 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO—  •*      202  Main  Library 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1  -month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405 

6-month  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books  to  Circulation  Desk 

Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  date 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


[JUN  14 


91 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
FORM  NO.  DD6,  60m,  12/80        BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


339492 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY  .*.. 


